


Future Starts Slow

by Lori_S21



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 53,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lori_S21/pseuds/Lori_S21
Summary: Daryl knows as soon as he does it that meeting Paul 'Jesus' Rovia's eyes is a mistake because he’s pretty sure a pair like that, when filled with genuine warmth and concern, can get you to do just about anything they want.Daryl and Jesus meet. They fight. They bond. They begin to fit together in this crazy, messed up world.





	1. Chapter 1

_**Now...** _

Daryl lies trapped somewhere between full consciousness and the world of nightmares, same as he does every night when he isn’t here, in this bed, in his arms.

Why did he have to go on that run without him? Daryl was nearly back to full health, flu outbreak finally waning at the Hilltop, yet still he’d insisted Daryl stay behind and recover. Said he’d be fine but once you get something like this you shouldn’t ever let it out of your sight, not in this world. Everything gets torn away. Look at what happened at the prison. Look at Maggie.

He shies away from that thought, heart lurching with indescribable sadness. He’s wracked with guilt and anxiety, such thoughts not helping. Seems to be a night for regrets. His breath comes tighter as he rolls onto his side, burying his face in the sweaty pillow. Paul’s trailer has always been on the small side, crammed with piles of books leaving little room for anything else. Just a double bed with creaky springs, a small bathroom with a lukewarm shower, his pride and joy. It seems even more constrictive when he’s gone, walls practically closing in on him. It’s enough to make it seem almost cosy when he’s here.

Daryl is only able to doze once he has set his mind on a certain course of action, resolving to go out and look for him at the crack of dawn. Can’t spend another night like this, jerking back into wakefulness with thoughts of snarling walkers and blood that won’t ever wash off. Nightmarish images of _his_ body, broken, bleeding, turning…

He supposes he does sleep at some point, if you can call it that. Jolting, thrashing and waking in a cold sweat, repeat until insane. When he next awakens, there is a weight in the bed next to him, dipping the mattress to his right. Every sense flares up but he’s not afraid, doesn’t swing into action, lash out. Because those very senses tell him just who it is before he is even awake, body instinctively knowing, even with his eyes shut. The weight is so familiar, he keeps his eyes closed, savours the moment. The body he knows so well. The warmth that is the only thing that keeps him sane at night. And the scent…

Paul takes great pride in being clean. He washes his clothes frequently so there is rarely a stain on his practical but - okay, Daryl can admit it - ridiculously cool outfits, always smelling fresh in the heat of the day. His skin is clean, smooth to touch, unblemished. His hair somehow always thick and shining, feels really good whether you’re grabbing a handful of it or trailing it through your fingers until his eyes slip shut. But this… This is real. Sometimes it's the only damn thing that _does_ feel real to him anymore. Paul Rovia and his family. _Is_ his family. Little idiot.

The man must have staggered into bed next to him without showering, either too tired or just not wanting to wake him. He can smell his clean scent under the sweat of the day on his body. This is the real him, at the end of the day. Shed the Jesus persona, all helpful and polite, doing anything for anyone. Only Daryl gets to see him like this. Usually after they’ve been intimate, after Daryl has made him moan and sweat and gasp out his name. Paul taking something for himself for once, Daryl’s body, Daryl’s heart.

Arousal threads its way through the bone deep relief of actually having him here, real, touchable and very much alive. Daryl’s eyes actually tear up a little and he forces himself to get a grip as he rolls on to his side, shuffling closer to the vague shape next to him. He sees the outline of his back, doesn’t stop until he can bury his face in the fall of hair that tumbles over the back of his neck, inhaling deeply, gratefully. He smells of the woods, of crisp air and musk of the day’s heat. It makes his heart pound. Daryl was no wordsmith, but this moment would be the only thing close to clarifying what he feels for the man, even if he doesn’t know exactly why.

Paul is still dressed, coat shucked off but still wearing his shirt and jeans as though he’s just fallen on top of the covers with exhaustion. Daryl can feel the rough material against his skin. He lies on his side, back to Daryl but he doesn’t mind because it’s _him_. He’s here. He can feel the warmth of his body and the way he moves with every slow and reassuringly steady breath. Daryl moulds his body around him, getting as close as he can without waking him, allowing him to rest. He never was particularly tactile, but for him, in this moment, he can make an exception. He wraps his arms around his middle, hides his face in the warm safety of his hair, surrounded by the scent of him, finally able to drift off into a genuine, deep sleep whilst wondering how the hell he got this lucky.

 

________________

 

 _ **Before**_  

Paul Rovia is beginning to like it here. 

Sure, they may not have got off to the smoothest start. Casual bondage (not really his thing when abandoned on the side of road with potential flesh eating monsters nearby), punch to the face (“MY gun!”) and food in the lake (painful). What a first date. But still, the people here are kind to him even after all they have suffered. They are as worn down as anyone is in this new world, but accepting and patient. It’s as good a place as any; Alexandria.

They took him in even after that fiasco with the van, checking to see he wasn’t injured. He pretended to be unconscious for far longer than he actually was, just so he could sneak around their base, creeping past Daryl to do so. That had seemed to be strike two in the man’s eyes. It couldn’t be helped and a small part of him actually quite liked riling the man up. Case in point: the journey to Alexandria. He had leant against the warmth of the other man, only to have been shoved away with unnecessary force, as though Daryl had been trying to physically and mentally distance himself from the very start.

He was still doing it now.

But these are good people. They’re going to help save the Hilltop, to kill the Saviours. He will help as best as he can, providing information, entering the fray if at all possible. He saw what they did to the Hilltop, when they killed the boy as if his life had meant nothing, what they’ll keep doing to so many others. Until then, he’ll stay with them. If he can get past the gut churning nerves this plan evokes, there are certain perks to staying in Alexandria.

Daryl Dixon being one of them. 

He was wrong about him and Rick. Kind of. Yes, they had looked like trouble, like Saviours actually, but they couldn’t have been more different. If they hadn’t already had a camp he would have offered them a place at Hilltop. They were strong, resourceful and resilient, exactly the kind of people he had been scouting for. They knew how to fight, but also knew where to draw the line. They hadn’t abandoned his unconscious form, showing they had retained their humanity - something that wasn't so easy to do out there. He admires Rick’s integrity, his determination to fend for his people. He’s drawn to Daryl’s strength; posturing, hiding something much more vulnerable underneath. He _cares_ so much.

Daryl Dixon with his surliness, barked out insults and hunch-shouldered swagger. There are many things he likes about the man already. The way he ducks his head when he thinks he’s said something foolish, even when it isn't at all. When this man talks, you better listen, he sees through the bullshit and calls things as they truly are. He likes the way he suppresses his smiles, as though admitting you amused him is a great source of personal pain. He really likes those gorgeous shoulders, the shape of him, his _arms_ : broad, strong, usually streaked with sweat and engine oil in a way that is simply mouthwatering. 

He can admit it. Daryl is exactly his type. The kind who could throw you on a bed (or against a tree... His fantasies aren't fussy) then probably apologise after for it.

He especially likes the flush of the other man's cheeks, the way his breath quickens when he steps just a little too close. He does this very rarely, sensing something of a cornered animal about the way he reacts, flinching like someone who's been hurt before. Sometimes he can’t help himself though. He’s only human, desperate to get closer the more he pulls away. Human weakness. Daryl would always recover well after being flustered, jutting his chin out, eyes fixed on his own, projecting an aura of arrogant indifference.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Jesus can’t help asking now, smiling wickedly as he squeezes past him in Aaron’s cramped garage, intending to get a closer look at his beautifully reconstructed bike. It is something of an honour to be invited into Daryl Dixon’s sanctuary at all. He spends so many hours alone in here, tinkering with the motorcycle. Only his own earnest confession of a love for motorbikes had weakened Daryl’s resolve, earning himself a grudging invite into his den. 

Jesus makes this eyes wide and innocent, staring a fraction too long into Daryl’s suspicious, narrowed gaze. Briefly they are mere inches apart before he crouches down to examine Daryl’s handiwork, hiding his smile.

He hears Daryl snort and possibly mutter something that sounds suspiciously like: ‘Your _face_ makes me uncomfortable…’ which makes him roll his eyes, holding back a chuckle.

“ _What?_ ” He sputters, hands on his thighs, looking up in indignation. 

“Nothin’” He hears Daryl clear his throat. 

“Good. Because you know that my face is nothing short of a work of art.” Jesus teases attempting to make his voice all stern.

Another snort. “You here to look at the bike or what?”

Jesus smiles and shakes his head in amusement, hair swinging. _He’s just too damn cute for words._ But he’s quite right, the bike is very worthy of his attention. Patched together from pieces that fit together exquisitely, unexpectedly coming together to make something new and complete. Shiny chrome crafted from loving hands. He’s no expert on motorbike construction, preferring to ride them, but he can appreciate the time and effort that went into rebuilding this one.

“You’re very talented Daryl, this is a thing of beauty.” He runs his hand along the subframe, to the cool chrome of the handlebars before caressing the throttle.

He risks a glance at Daryl. Head ducked, though posture proud and rigid, Daryl mumbles a modest. “Gets the job done.” Though Jesus thinks he sounds a little pleased.

“I bet you do.” Jesus can’t help responding, face a mask of innocent sincerity. He straightens up to look him dead in the eye. Either the innuendo is lost on Daryl or he has an excellent poker face. But there’s that ever so slight flush of pink under the bristles of his face. Lovely.

But he can be merciful. There’s a part of him that realises what it means for Daryl to have shown him this. His pride, his hard work. He stops teasing, voice sincere. “Really Daryl, it’s amazing.” He gives him the briefest pat on the arm, can’t not when he sees Daryl tilt his head, as though trying to work out if Jesus is being serious. Maybe compliments don’t come his way so often. The slight quirk of the corners of his mouth could actually be the beginnings of a smile, quickly smothered of course, but at least he may have realised Jesus truly meant it.

He gives a small nod, posture slightly surer, as though proud of his work. Then as always, his thumbnail finds its way into his mouth, possibly a nervous tick but endearingly familiar.

“Haven’t test driven her yet,” Daryl admits around a hangnail. Jesus can’t help but notice the way Daryl’s eyes fix on him as he moves back to the bike, running his hands down the cross section once more, movements slow and deliberate.

“Can I be there when you do?” Jesus asks softly.

“If you’re here…” Daryl answered a little too casually, somehow managing to make that statement sound like a question. _That’s encouraging…_

Just like the insults and the abrasiveness. He can just tell, Daryl Dixon can’t help but seem to like him. He’s not being vain. The man quite literally can’t seem to help it, though he does try. Oh boy does he fight it, and Jesus doesn’t know why. If this were school, he’d be pushing Jesus over in the playground by now. He smiles wryly at the thought.

He knew there was something there from the moment they first met. Sure, the circumstances could have been a little better, given that he was trying to rob them blind. But he couldn’t regret his actions, not when they had lead him here. He had to put Hilltop first, at all costs. Still, from the time when Daryl threw that canned drink at him, the sheer pettiness of shaking it up beforehand, he couldn’t help but laugh, he was a goner. It was as though Jesus had hurt his feelings, so Daryl was teasing him back. He knew he’d like him from that moment onwards. Now he was slowly getting to know him, liking him more and more.

“I’m thinking about hanging around a little longer if you’ll have me?” He deliberately straightens up, moves closer to Daryl, appealing with his eyes.

“Well you’re not stayin’ with me.” Jesus smiles broadly at Daryl’s misunderstanding. “And that’s not, I mean, it’s not up to me. If you stay here. Or not.” Daryl shrugged, stepping back a little.

Jesus sighs. Even if he could trust Gregory enough to leave Hilltop more than a few days, he’s not sure whether the fearless leader of Alexandria trusts him enough to welcome him into the fold. Rick Grimes. The man is terrifying, though seemed friendly at first, quite welcoming in fact. Now he seems to be watching Jesus very often. Well, mostly whenever Daryl is in proximity. That hasn’t gone unnoticed. Though why that may be, he has no idea. He is quite obviously with Michonne, the attractive woman with a glare that could sear your soul. Or maybe it was only obvious because he burst in on them naked and curled up in bed together. Ah well. Maybe that’s why Rick doesn’t like him so much anymore, his gross invasion of privacy. Perhaps he’s wrong about thinking it has something to do with Daryl. That maybe they were together long ago.

Then again he knows so very little about the other man’s past.

He’s suddenly seized by the impossible urge to kiss the man in front of him, but knows that would be a potentially fatal impulse. A jealous, reckless reaction. He realises maybe Daryl’s not the only one having trouble fighting this. It’s chemistry, stupid ridiculous chemistry. It also doesn’t help that Daryl is bloody gorgeous too. He just doesn’t need the trouble, even if a treacherous voice is telling him this man could be worth it. That’s not what he’s here for.

“You okay?” Daryl asks almost grudgingly, sensing the tension coming from the other man as any good hunter would.

“That may be the first personal question you ever asked me.” Jesus answered with a grin, shaking off his frustrations. “I’m always fine.”

Daryl merely gave him another intense stare, as though trying to puzzle him out. He opens his mouth as though to protest.

“Come on then, tell me all about how you fixed this girl up.” Jesus interrupted, better to save him the embarrassment of attempting to have a conversation involving emotions. “I hope it involves lots of sweat and engine oil.” He adds, making it obvious he’s only teasing by waggling his eyebrows like a fiend. 

“Stop.” Daryl elbows him, not too hard which is practically playful for him. Still, Jesus almost falls over a workbench, though Daryl helps to right him before he can do much damage. 

They get seated on said workbench and gradually Daryl’s eyes begin to light up as he answers the question. He gruffly, but almost enthusiastically, explains the process of fixing the pieces together. Sourcing the right parts, adjusting the fit carefully, manually, a labour of love. Sometimes Jesus has trouble following but knows he has touched upon one talent of which he is actually proud.

“It weren’t nothin,” Daryl concludes with a modest shrug, which Jesus finds surprisingly sweet.

He’s oh so very screwed.

After, Daryl digs out a couple of lukewarm beers from a box under the table, silently offers one to him. Although it’s not really Jesus’ drink of choice, he accepts; enjoying their closeness, the normality of the situation. Besides, these could be the last couple of beers on earth. They sit shoulder to shoulder, in comfortable silence, watching the light glint off Daryl’s handiwork. 

 And if only for a moment, he feels strangely at peace.

_________________

 

Daryl dislikes Jesus.

He hates his motormouth. Hates his cartoon Bambi eyes. How do they get that big anyway? It’s like they _inflate_ , all round with long lashes. And they’re like... the intense blue of a tropical ocean, not that he’s ever seen one for real. That’s just how he’d imagine it would look, torquoise, reflecting the light, sparkling with warmth. In short, eyes that draw you in and that are far too pretty than any man has the right to have. 

He hates his persistence. Constantly questioning, prying, trying to get to know him, won’t leave him the bloody hell alone. Alexandria suddenly feels a lot smaller when he’s around since he always seems to find him. 

Has he actually told him to go away, come to think of it? Only in the beginning. He guesses the little ninja wore him down eventually. Just like Aaron. Though not exactly like Aaron. Well, they’re both gay, he thinks… _Probably_. But that’s as far as comparisons go. Aaron’s never teased him. Made him stutter, invaded his personal space. What’s his problem anyway? Always finding an excuse to touch him, he’s noticed. Should probably tell him to stop that, any day now. Him and his perfect, pretty-boy smiling face. Always beaming up at him. His smart words loaded with double meanings. _Little shit probably thinks I’m too dumb to notice…_

He’s very hard to work out too. He looks small and frail, but packs a mean punch. First he was just plain untrustworthy, a scheming thief with Houdini-like qualities. But then he goes and introduces them to his community, invites them in, trusts them, tries to help though he has no reason to. They are slowly starving whilst Hilltop is barely scraping by, Saviours or not. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t his plan to get them to take them out either. That was his own idea, in exchange for goods and services, not to impress Jesus. Of course not. He does wonder if this was what Jesus wanted all along, but he remembers his reaction, so surprised and uncertain. His eyes are always so open and honest, no one’s that good an actor.

And who the hell goes around calling themselves Jesus anyway? What kind of complex is that? And what’s with the hipster-ninja bank robber look? Ridiculous.

“So how’d you think our new neighbour is working out?” He’s sat smoking on the steps of Rick’s porch, old habits die hard, when the Sheriff comes out to join him, breaking into his thoughts. The night is balmy, there are crickets chirping in the heat of the night and not a walker moan in earshot. All very good. He takes a final drag, smoke warming his lungs as Rick hands him a mug of coffee which he gratefully accepts. He takes a sip and shudders with pleasure at the bitter taste. It’s strong, Rick always makes it the way he likes it. He grinds the cigarette stub under his heel.

“Who?” Daryl murmurs although he knows who Rick’s referring to, just vainly trying to enjoy the peace.

“Our holy guest,” Rick replies, eyebrows raised and a small smirk playing about his features. It’s amazing how much he can read in his expression now the beard has gone. He misses it for some strange reason. Made him look like a crazy man of the forest. Comforting. 

“S’aright.” Daryl shrugs in answer, not really wanting to discuss him further with Rick. The two men don’t sit peacefully side by side in his head for some reason.

“Thought you hated him.” Rick stares off into the green in front of his home, face carefully blank. Daryl considers his words. There are certainly things he dislikes about the man, behaviours that bug the hell out of him. And God knows he’s ranted to Rick enough about him but that was before. Before what? Before Hilltop? Before Aaron’s garage? 

Before he knew him. Yes, Jesus drives him crazy, but enough to hate him?

“Nah,” Says Daryl, mouth suddenly dry for some reason. He takes another sip of his brew before responding. “Why? He done something you don’t like?”

“Not yet.” Rick shoots back, something accusatory in his tone that Daryl doesn’t like. That’s a new sensation around Rick.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Daryl says as calmly as possible, though he’s starting to feel strangely defensive.

Of course, Rick senses this, knows him well. He places a conciliatory hand on his forearm. “Nothin’ Daryl, really. I trust your judgement is all.”

He can’t quite see those eyes, pooled in shadows. But Rick leaves his hand in place. It’s warm and holds him there as much as that gaze he’s certain is fixed on him, deep and concerned.

“Man’s trying to protect his home,” He doesn’t know why it feels so weird to defend Jesus to Rick like this, why he feels so uncomfortable. “If he comes through for us, my feelings pretty much don’t matter.”

He feels Rick tense beside him, though doesn’t know why. “Aren’t we all trying to protect something?”

Rick’s hand slides off his bicep as they settle into a contemplative silence, nothing but the chirp of insects and their own thoughts for company.

That is until Rick breaks the silence. “It’s okay to feel y’know?” He clears his throat awkwardly as Daryl tenses beside him, stillness fraught with tension as though stalking his prey. “We’re trying to build a life here. If you say you can trust him and he makes you feel-”

“Thanks for the mud.” He gracelessly slams the still half full mug on to the hardwood floor beside Rick, accidentally spilling the remaining liquid and not stopping long enough to care. He stalks off back to his own ‘home,’ not glancing back even as Rick calls out his name.

They are not going there. They just ain’t. 

__________

 

“This is a bad idea.”

“I think it’s a perfectly wonderful idea Daryl, you worry too much.”

“Well, your kung fu crap ain’t gonna do shit if we get swarmed by geeks out here.”

“No one’s getting swarmed by anything, just show me how you do it.” Jesus keeps his voice low and even, in a way he just knows makes Daryl squirm, be it with frustration or something else. He knows Daryl just wants an excuse to insult him, was never keen on this idea. An exchange of skills: Daryl shows him how to hunt and track, Hilltop gets more ammo and Jesus shows him a few fighting moves and some of his ‘Houdini crap’ as a bonus. He’s very generous like that. 

And surprisingly, the idea had come from Rick Grimes himself. Jesus had merely remarked that being able to hunt would be better than risking lives scavenging every day. Running into other humans was the main problem, rather than the dead men walking, sad but true. Daryl was not remotely thrilled. Kept looking at their leader through suspicious eyes that bordered on open hostility.

Jesus didn’t want to know what was happening there.

Daryl had given in with an exasperated: “Well, if it stops you stealing shit from good people…” and had lead him into the woods with rigid shoulders and a grunt of exasperation.

In truth, Jesus never minded scavenging, being useful, finding things that were desperately needed. Despite the risk, it was one way to leave behind the same faces every day, to escape their demands and judgments and spend some much needed time alone. People seemed to gravitate towards his calm yet practical nature, always have done. And whilst he liked the people of Hilltop just fine (some much less - _Gregory_ \- than others), he needed some time to just be.

Anyway, he’d always felt squeamish about killing animals, in truth. But if spending time with Daryl Dixon was a happy by-product of learning a new skill set, he wasn’t about to question Rick’s unexpectedly generous offer. Daryl didn’t demand anything, even with their trade deal. He could feel the act of confident negotiator slip away, as it always did when he went scavenging alone, except this time he was with someone. Someone he could simply follow, someone who didn’t particularly want anything from him.

Watching Daryl transform as he roams through the woods is worth every drop of venom directed his way. He moves like a predator, body taut and lean as he prowls through the undergrowth, feet barely making a sound on the leaf-strewn floor. Jesus follows his trail as best as he can. He's always been able to glide silently, appearing unexpectedly when he needs to - didn’t get the nickname just for the full and luscious beard. But he’s never moved like Daryl. Sure-footed, determined and absolutely lethal, filling the space - owning it. This is Daryl in his natural habitat, sure-footed and ready to attack. 

It is stunning.

He tries. Avoiding pitfalls such as branches that whip back, thorns that scratch and twigs that snap. He uses the balls of his feet before gently applying pressure with every step he takes. Every so often, Daryl glances back as though to check he is still there, the biggest compliment he can give without words. When Daryl suddenly stops in the shade of a tree, beckoning Jesus to join him with the slightest flex of his hand, he understands immediately. This earns him an abortive nod of approval that makes Jesus want to beam at him. He doesn’t. He presses against his side, waits, absorbing the heat of the man warmed by their actions and the blazing sun above. Daryl cocks his head to one side, listening, knees bent, body low and poised.  At first he’s distracted by his proximity, all lean muscles and dangerous aura, then hears it too.

They’d been tracking a deer, possibly a young buck judging by the pile of scat they’d found half a mile back (he’ll take Daryl’s word for it). The hunter may not have been the most patient teacher, but he did grudgingly point out helpful facts along the way. Markings on trees, trails made by tracks rather than falling bracken, prints and compressions. His narrow eyes see so much more, take in that which others would overlook. Maybe that’s why he’s survived this long.

Jesus hears the unmistakable shuffling sounds, the slight groan no living creature would ever make. They have unwanted company. He peers around the tree, sees the caricature of a man shuffling forward in the remains of a tattered suit, back to them, dragging one twisted, obviously broken heel behind him.

“Not the kinda hunting I had in mind,” Daryl mutters under his breath before offering to hand his precious crossbow over to Jesus. 

“No, you’re alright,” Jesus declined, suggestion taking him by surprise. 

“Thought you’re here to practice?” Daryl looks at him, eyebrow quirked and a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He can hear the challenge in his voice. Daryl slots an arrow into place, before locking the string back, loaded and ready for one of them to use. Daryl is stooped slightly, so they are eye to eye, sharing breath, arms pressed together for a moment until the walker stops.

It slowly turns to face them, gargling in the back of its throat. Jesus can’t help but place a hand on Daryl’s bicep reflexively, squeezing slightly. Half of the thing’s face is hanging off. He’s seen a lot of horrible sights in the past few years, so the surge of nausea takes him by surprise. It’s something about the juxtaposition of the formerly fancy suit, black tie, against the haggard remains of what was once so very human. The scent of its grey rotted flesh hits him as it takes one determined step towards them, teeth exposed in a permanent snarl where the flesh is no more, as though parts of it have been torn off. This sight combined with the heat of the day nearly has him reeling.

But the challenge in those eyes has him grabbing the unfamiliar weapon before he can dwell any further on the gory details, drawing strength from the hunter’s presence. Less than ten feet away, the walker can see and smell their fresh, living bodies, begins to drag itself a little faster, arms already reaching, determined to tear into their warmth. Jesus’ heart begins to pound from adrenaline, the rustling sounds of the forest fade until it’s just him, Daryl and the walker.

The hunter is by his side, a protective - if slightly hostile - shadow. No, _he’s_ the hunter now. He raises the bow, a powerful, elegant weapon, places his finger on the smooth trigger. He can feel the warmth of Daryl beside him. The creature staggers closer, this disintegrating former human, making almost desperate choking sounds. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, heart rate evening, applies pressure to the trigger…

The arrow flies with surprising speed, piercing the roamer’s right eye, tearing through its skull. It falls as though in slow motion, crumpling to the forest floor in horrid detail. A pile of decaying meat. 

_Is that all we become?_

Jesus staggers a little, hit by a wave of humidity. He’s killed plenty before, seen far more disgusting roamers, stopped ones who even meant something to him, but that one was pretty ghastly in a way he can’t define. Something almost pitiful about it, but he learnt to stop thinking like that a long time ago. When a rough hand grips his shoulder, he sways into it gratefully.

“There ya go,” Daryl is roughly pressing the canteen of water into his hand. He grips it tight as Daryl pulls the crossbow out of his numb grip with one hand and steadies him with the other.

“Can’t eat that,” Jesus mumbles, still staring at the pile until Daryl is blocking his view with those broad shoulders, casting a cooling shadow over him. _Man, he is tall…_

The hunter snorts at that, whether in amusement or disgust it’s hard to tell. _Always seems to be a fine line with him,_ Jesus thought. 

“Drink.” He orders curtly. “We ain’t done here yet.”

Jesus does just that. He takes a large swig and it steadies the world a little, pulls colours back into focus. Daryl’s hand is still on him and it feels good, he inches a little closer, and the hand slips from his shoulder to his arm, gripping firmly. Daryl’s still watching him, checking he’s not going to pass out no doubt. He meets his eyes, proving his strength and it’s like the world is stilling again but for completely different reasons. The heat of the day hits a new level, more humid, something almost electric in the air.

“If I’m being completely honest, I think I lost my appetite.” He says, just to break the tension, trying out a shaky smile. “Was never much of a meat eater, pre-apocalypse anyway. Guess I can’t be so choosey now.”

Daryl shakes his head, looking down at the floor. “Should have known.” 

“Known what?”

“You’d be fussy like that, with all your hipster-ninja hippy shit.” He almost sounds fond.

“Are you done?” Jesus asks, smile clear in his voice.

“Not even close.” Daryl says, pulling abruptly away to reclaim his arrow. He grunts as he pulls it out of the thing’s eye socket. It doesn’t come out easy. Jesus will remember the noise of it scraping free for a long while, he’s sure. Something new to add to the nightmares anyway. 

Daryl cleans off the gore from his arrow with a cloth before retuning it to his sheath, the cloth to his back pocket. He then strolls back over to Jesus so he can take the canteen and have a drink himself. He tilts his head back and Jesus can’t help but track the line of his throat with this eyes, the fine sheen of sweat. He begins to feel a new kind of thirst and has to tear his eyes away before the other man notices.

Showing such self restraint pays off. It’s a very educational, if gory day. Daryl shows him some simple snares, how to find water, how to keep heading north. They bag two squirrels, deciding the buck can roam free for another day. Jesus takes out a third although it isn’t Daryl’s clean shot in the eye. Daryl shows him how to skin and gut the poor bastards, before getting him to start a campfire and fashion a makeshift spit. He finds the meat quite tough and gamey tasting, wrinkles his nose in mild disappointment (has to fight down a smile when he notices Daryl watching him, eyes filled with triumphant amusement - he’s getting better at reading his expressions). All that work for a few unsatisfactory mouthfuls. Can’t feed a town on that. They split the third squirrel and he remembers that food wasn’t the only reason why he’s out here with Daryl. He has an ulterior motive.

“So how’d you learn all this stuff anyway?” He ventures, knowing the man isn’t exactly talkative, but wanting to know him all the same. Baby steps. He drops the bones into a neat little pile before wiping his greasy hands on a patch of grass, preferring to keep his jeans clean (unlike a certain man sat opposite). He shrugs his coat off, glad he didn’t wear his hat. The sun is still beating down on them.

He reclines, stretching out in the grass until his joints pop, strangely relaxed. It is only when he’s pushing his hair back from his neck that he notices Daryl’s eyes are trailing over his body, his waist, the knives criss-crossed there. He slows down, leans back, neck exposed to a gentle breeze. It feels good. Daryl’s attention feels even better.

Daryl shrugs the moment off as soon as he realises Jesus has seen hm, ducks his head before staring into the line of trees opposite. “Learnt it from TV. Some from my uncle, some of it me,” He answered, not boastful, simply matter of fact before taking another bite of squirrel. “You pick stuff up.”

“You’re really good at it.” Jesus says, enjoying the slight charge in the air. “Like the bike building. You’re just full of surprises aren’t you, Daryl?” He is completely sincere, but enjoying the slight blush on the other man’s cheeks.

No answer.

“It’s funny, the skills we have before are what really set us apart in the new world. Even if who we were doesn’t define us anymore.” He says thoughtfully. “For example, no one’s crying out for yoga instructors in the apocalypse.” 

Daryl stops eating, pins him with one of those stares. “That what you did?”

Is Daryl imagining it? “Among other things.”

“Bullshit.” Daryl grunts causing Jesus to laugh.

“What, you don’t think I could show you the downward dog?” He asks teasingly, before holding his hands up to ward off Daryl’s vicious glare. Doesn’t want him to shut him out again, so sobers up a little. “Alright! I did a lot of things. Was a teacher at this community centre for a while. Yoga, martial arts, even magic…”

“Magic?” A gruff sound of disbelief.

“Yes magic, you believe in magic don’t you, Daryl?” Jesus teases smiling, though doesn’t elaborate. His escapologist antics won’t go down well with this audience after the last time, he feels. “Then I travelled around a lot. Yes, like a hippy, thank you. I was a chef, a barman, a carer. Then I may or may not have used my talents for less legal practices…” There is no judgement in Daryl’s expression, which he appreciates. There’s nothing at all that he can read. “Then there was…this.” He trials off vaguely gesturing around them, smile slipping off his face. He tries not to be crushed by the sudden rush of memories, what he has lost. It’s gone. _They’re_ gone. There’s no point in letting it take him too.

They sit in silence, only the crackle of the fire between them.

“My brother taught me some of this stuff too,” Daryl offered, not meeting Jesus’ eyes. The fire casts strange shadows over his face, highlighting those angular cheekbones, darkening his eyes. “We’d go camping in the woods, when home got too bad.”

“The camping part sounds fun,” Jesus offered cautiously, sensing a guarded sadness coming from the other man. He’s heard this story before, broken violent home, a dominating brother. It’s Daryl who is the wonder. To be so kind, so clever beneath all the defensiveness. That kindness, that beauty, often gets crushed out of men who come from such dark places.

“Not really. He was a shit.” Daryl answered bluntly. “But he was my shit, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.” It slipped out, seeing the shadow pass over his features. Daryl had seemed so at home, at ease here in the forest, now he was just plain sad. It made him want to do things for him, to him, that maybe wouldn’t make him sad. But no, _bad Paul._ Jesus immediately knows sympathy is certainly not what the man wanted. And Jesus’ body was not what he needed either, unfortunately. Or at least, he doubted he’d admit it. “What you do is incredible. That counts for something. You take care of your family.”

“All we got’s each other,” Daryl answers as though what he does means nothing. He doesn’t really have an answer for that, not one that wouldn’t end with a punch to his face. He merely gets up, folds his coat over his arm, before offering his free hand to Daryl.

The man stares at it for a moment, as though suspecting a trick, before grudgingly accepting. His grip is strong and lingers even after he’s found his feet. They stand close, fingers linked. Daryl seems to have no problem meeting his eyes now, quite the opposite. Almost as though he likes them. He tilts his head, almost shy. It’s Jesus who sadly breaks the spell, knowing there’s a distance he can’t breach today.

“Lets go home?” 

Daryl nods, drops his hand as though only just realising he was still holding it.

“You lead. Wanna see how much you remembered.”

Only when Jesus finishes laughing does he realise he called Alexandria ‘home,’ and that Daryl didn’t contradict him.

____________________

“What was that back there?”

“Hm?” 

“With you and the geek?”

Jesus stills in the evening sun as they make their way home, gentle breeze running through those elegant locks that Daryl doesn’t envy at all. He could drown himself in conditioner and still not achieve that look, the hippy douche.

The question had just slipped out of him, suddenly very important. Sure, the man had been slightly sun stroked, but there was that look, some hint of pain in those all too expressive eyes. He had to know why, for some bizarre reason. _Needed_ to know why that walker, one of thousands, had affected him so.

“You mean when I shot it with incredible natural talent which you still haven’t commented on, by the way?” He’s smiling now, cheeks round and smooth, eyes damn-near sparkling.

Prick seems to use humour as a shield. All his teasing, little jokes, compliments and - yes, he can admit it - _flirting,_ all to push him away, keep him at bay. _Thinks I don’t notice…_

What Daryl had told him about learning to hunt, that was real. Didn’t get nothing back and that bothers him. It _bothers_ him that it bothers him. Usually, keeping people at bay is right where he wants them to be.

Suddenly he’s in a foul mood despite the fact they’ve had what probably passes for a pretty pleasant day in his books. Screw that guy anyway. 

Daryl pushes past him, deciding to take the lead and leave the little ninja-prick behind. Hopefully.

“Hey, wait up!” He calls, though not with much urgency. Does he ever lose that sense of calmness?

Yes. When that walker came at them.

He hears him approach, jogging now. The man is usually so silent, like magic. _“You believe in magic, don’t you Daryl?”_

_Prick._

“Hey, what’s wrong?” There’s that gentle hand on his shoulder once more. He shrugs it off with more aggression than required, keeps walking. Doesn't matter. If he touches him again, he swears he’ll swing for him.

“Nothin’. Just fed up of being out here with you.” He spits out, surprising himself with the outburst. Jesus just laughs and it isn’t even nervous. How does he do that? Why doesn’t he back away when anyone else would?

“Didn’t think it went _that badly_.” Hippy git’s now by his side, matching him stride for stride despite being so much smaller. He can still hear the smile in his voice.

He stops abruptly, turning to face the young man so suddenly, he actually looks unsteady on his feet.

“You’re so funny, _Jesus_.” He spits the name out like it’s an insult. Probably the first time he’s tried to name him. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly he’s fuming. “Tell me a joke, tell me another fake-story.” He’s shoving him away now, not as hard as he could, but enough to make Jesus stumble away. He doesn’t seriously test the man though, has a feeling such an action would end up with him flat on his back. Man has some moves.

Jesus is staring at him with wide eyes now, hands held up in a placating manner, as though Daryl is a wild animal. He is. He’s hanging on to his humanity, fighting to stay alive. It was his idea to take the fight to the Saviours, what if he loses someone? That’ll be on him. He realises how worried he’s been, how tense he feels. There’s sympathy in those eyes now and the sight suddenly makes all the fight drain out of him. How can he keep pushing him around, when his eyes look like that? Still no fear, only concern. _Damn him._

“Daryl,” Jesus begins tentatively. 

“Don’t matter,” He interrupts, suddenly pacing.

“Daryl,” He repeats soothingly. ”The only lies I ever told you were back at that gas station.”

Daryl grunts, drops his gaze to the floor, suddenly ashamed. 

“Even your name’s a lie.” He mumbles, feeling childish as soon as the words pass his lips.

He hears a small laugh, keeps staring at the leaves. “You know you don’t have to call me that.”

That surprises him. “What the hell else do I call you?”

“My name perhaps?” He sounds amused. “Paul, maybe?”

“Don’t look like a Paul.” Daryl grumbles, not knowing precisely what he means by it. Only it’s rather plain isn’t it? Doesn’t suit him.

Another chuckle. “Then keep calling me hippy-prick or ninja-douche or whatever you want.”

He hears leaves crunching before another pair of boots join his.

“Daryl?” Softly again.

He looks up, past long, slender legs, a narrow waist and lean body to see the - _hippy? prick? Paul?!_ \- man is right in front of him, eyes all inflated and soul searching and _god damn_ that’s annoying. He guesses Jesus does kind of fit, with his calm kindness and how dependant people are on him - not that there’s anything remotely holy about him. But all he seems to do is help people. They take and take and take…

He knows as soon as he does it that meeting his eyes is a mistake because he’s pretty sure a pair like that, when filled with genuine warmth and concern, can get you to do just about anything they want. Even not pull back when a hand that has no right touching you, suddenly ghosts over your cheek, all softness and warmth, catching on rough skin, as though you are worth something. As though your outbursts don’t matter because he sees though the bullshit, even if he won’t let you get close enough to see through his. The touch is gone before he can decide if he wants to pull back, though Jesus still doesn’t move away. He can feel his reassuring warmth, see the way the light plays off the many shades of brown in his hair.

He’s the type of man who is born to lead, even if he doesn’t want to. 

_So why’s he wasting his time with me?_

“The walker made me sad.” He voice is calm and even as always. Something refreshingly open in his words and expression. “It was so pitiful, all dressed up, ready to die.” He pauses, looks away briefly before drawing Daryl in once more. “I just hope that when I go, someone I love finishes me off. Not some hippy prick playing target practice.”

Daryl suddenly finds it hard to swallow, wondering how exactly Jesus had managed to express his own fear so perfectly, one he’d never really admitted to himself.

He could count the hairs on his face if he wished. That neat beard, disguising the youthful beauty of that face.

Since _when_ did he think of Jesus as beautiful? It bothers him less than it should.

There’s a single crisp brown leaf in Jesus’ hair. Daryl allows himself this single moment, this one small indulgence, to reach out and pluck the leaf from his hair. But he finds his touch lingers and he can’t help but brush a strand out of his eyes, trailing his fingers through it. It’s as soft as it looks. Of course it would be, _hippy jerk. _He tucks the stray strand behind his ear, fingertips lightly skimming the smooth skin of his temple. Jesus smiles openly at the touch, eyes fluttering shut briefly as though relishing the contact. He lets his hand fall back to his side, strangely reluctant. His heart is pounding and he doesn’t know what he was thinking, only that Jesus keeps looking up at him with something like affection, and their toes are practically touching and his stomach is dropping…__

__When Jesus looks at him like this, it makes Daryl remember what is feels like to find something you were desperately searching for, something precious, thought to be long lost. Like Carol after Terminus. Or Rick after the prison. Or Beth in the city (and dear God does that thought hurt). And that makes no sense whatsoever because he hasn’t lost Jesus and doesn’t know him enough to care about him as though he were Carol, Rick or Beth, but it’s the only description that seems to fit. Like he’s on the verge of finding something it would destroy him to lose._ _

__All this goes through his mind within seconds. There’s one terrifying (thrilling) moment where it looks as though Jesus is going to move even closer, to completely fill the negative spaces between them. So he turns away, trying desperately hard not to close that distance, so he can resume making his way back to Alexandria, carry on with his life as normal, as it should be, as he deserves._ _

__Eventually he hears Jesus trail after him, at a respectful distance. His body thrums with adrenaline, like when he’s just finished a real good hunt._ _

__He just doesn’t know who is hunting who._ _

___________________________ _

__Rick offers him the spare room of his house which he gratefully accepts whilst pointedly ignoring the fact it happens to be a great way to keep an eye on him (there are plenty of empty houses in Alexandria, he noticed on that very first illicit exploration). But there’s a shower - a hot one! - and he’s so tired and grimy from the day’s activities he’s in no mood to protest or make the long way back to Hilltop. The bed is soft and glorious so he snuggles under clean covers, idly wondering if it’s Michonne’s old room. She won't be needing it anymore._ _

__“You alright?” Rick had asked literally as he crossed the threshold. He has the same laser-beam eyeball glare as Daryl - who knew? “The skill exchange go okay?”_ _

__“Yes!” Jesus had insisted, sensing this concern was actually an interrogation technique that would end with his spleen on the floor if Rick were to find out just how mad he’d made Daryl._ _

__Well, not mad per se. There were definitely some intense feelings there. Daryl had either been moments away from smashing his face in or shoving him against a tree and kissing him._ _

__Mixed signals._ _

__Instead he’d said: “Daryl’s a very good teacher. Once he’s stopped trying to set you on fire with his brain.”_ _

__That had earned a fond chuckle from the leader. Everyone adores Daryl it would seem. And it isn’t hard to see why. The man is the very definition of ‘heart of gold.’ It’s clear to anyone. The way he cares, the way he observes and helps so willingly, throwing his body and soul into it, with little care for himself. Just like how readily he offered to take out the Saviours to save his community, reckless almost. It makes Jesus want to make him stop, keep him safe, which is ridiculous considering just how capable he is. It's quite a feat._ _

__“He’s a good man.” Rick had said. “But you gotta earn his trust. That'll take time.”_ _

__Jesus absorbed his words carefully, wondering if it sounded like dating advice to the frankly terrifying leader too. “I get that.”_ _

__“He’s been through a lot.” Uh oh. Jesus had sensed they were going back into ‘missing spleen’ territory, a subtle warning laced through his words._ _

__“I’m gonna go shower.” Was the only response he had to give. To be honest, as much as he respected Rick looking out for Daryl, it was really none of his business._ _

__And now he’s lying here, thinking of all the things he should have done, should have said, back in the woods. Should he have kissed him? Would he have survived such an action? He remembers the way Daryl had removed that leaf from his hair, so delicately, rough fingertips tracing his temple, light and then gone. He’d shivered and wanted to lean in so badly it had left him shaken, stomach fluttering like a damn teenager. Surely such a reaction cannot stem from one person alone? He knows the other felt something, he’s just not sure if that matters anymore. In this time, in this place, life is short, bloody and meaningless. He doesn’t want it to be that way with Daryl. They have to get through this first. The attack on the Saviours._ _

__Still, it’s difficult with the memory of the warmth of his body, the tension in those muscles, the way his eyes stripped him down, took him apart…. He runs a curious hand down the expanse of his bare chest, skin hot to the touch, thinking of the other man, hands rough and exploratory… He stops himself before it can travel any lower. Not in someone else's bed - he's not some overgrown adolescent, even if he feels like one._ _

__Man, he hopes Daryl is suffering like this too._ _

__He knows Daryl feels it, their connection. No one has ever got him this good before. He’s a decisive person, deciding on a course of action and sticking to it. Indecision is not healthy for him or anyone in this world. It clouds judgement, dampens your responses, makes you dangerous. He needs to be clear minded, especially with the assault growing closer every day._ _

__He realises he needs to let him go._ _

__For now._ _

__

___________________________ _

__

__It’s easy to stay away from him, to avoid Jesus and focus on the task at hand. The assault on the Saviours’ outpost. The kill and the chase, hunting someone different, someone new. They all have their roles to play. Jesus is there, bandana back (as though that could disguise him - what about those eyes?), expression grimly determined as he joins the fray despite their protests of recognition. They all know they have no intention of leaving survivors who can identify him, who could link this back to Hilltop._ _

__That was the plan anyway._ _

__When the last body has fallen, when Carol and Maggie are safe once more (Carol briefly in his arms where it feels right), they begin to part ways, thinking they have actually won. Jesus just has to make an announcement._ _

__“I won’t be around for a while. Hilltop has some healing to do and it’s best if we stay apart. Just in case.” He states in the aftermath and there is a small, petty part of Daryl that wonders if he’s addressing himself only. He looks well, no wounds, barely a hair out of place. Jesus looks so fucking lovely he could drown in him. _Damn him._ The thought doesn't even surprise him anymore._ _

__Something has shifted between them. There is a charge in the air that leaves him breathless sometimes, it troubles him, makes him irrational. He shouldn’t have been worrying about Jesus during the assault, yet he was never far from his mind. It’s quite frankly, fucking ridiculous. He has avoided him as much as he could, only speaking to discuss strategy, the layout of the place. It wasn’t enough apparently. He’s embarrassed about his outburst in the woods, worried he’d do that, and worse, again. The memory of his touch is somehow both comforting and unsettling._ _

__And so, as Jesus prepares his car for the journey back to Hilltop, Daryl wanders over, drawn to him. Enough is enough. He keeps the car between them though, just in case._ _

__“Guess I won’t be seeing you for a while then.” It isn’t a question._ _

__“Guess so,” Jesus answers, swinging his bag into the passenger seat. “Gregory’s rules. No one finds out about Hilltop’s involvement.”_ _

__Daryl frowns at that. “But they’re all dead.”Jesus just looks at him thoughtfully. “How do we know that?” Before Daryl can puzzle that one out those luminous eyes have caught him again as he slams the passenger door shut before walking round to where Daryl stands on the driver’s side. There is no car between them anymore. No barriers to keep him safe, only a foot away. His eyes look very green today, could’ve sworn they were blue. Lying eyes, magic eyes._ _

__“You take care of yourself, Dixon. You hear me?”_ _

__His head is tilted in concern and he looks so sincere that Daryl finds himself nodding, a lump forming in his throat though he’s at a loss to explain why. “Yeah, you too.” He forces out gruffly, before stuffing a thumbnail into his mouth, lest it betray him further._ _

__He has the mad urge to pat Jesus’ shoulder or… something. One hand in his mouth, the other clenching by his side, he shuffles uncomfortably in the charged silence._ _

__“Yeah ‘me too’ what?” Jesus teases, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth._ _

__Daryl huffs, musters his best glare. “Don’t go getting knocked on your ass by stray truck doors or whatever.”_ _

__“I’ll try and keep that in mind, next time I’m being chased round a field by a leather-clad nightmare.” He says straight faced, clearly waiting for a visible rise. Daryl naturally remains stubbornly stoic. “One day I’m gonna get a smile out of you, Daryl Dixon, just you wait.” He warns and it sounds like a threat._ _

__He’s tired, sweating, aching, splattered with blood, has done things today he’d rather forget. Funny how it all fades away for the barest moment when this little idiot is around._ _

__“Hey Daryl! Get your butt over here and help me with this!” It’s Abraham, carrying a box of now ownerless guns, breaking the peace. Daryl huffs out an apologetic sigh._ _

__“I have to go.” Jesus states quietly and is it just him or is there something almost regretful in his tone?_ _

__Daryl nods, already backing away. “I’ll see you again.” He tries to sound more confident than he is because something feels wrong about this, letting him drive off alone with blood on his hands. Something too final. His stomach twists in concern, only to flip into something less unpleasant when Jesus smiles at him once more, tired but warm._ _

__“Oh yeah. You can’t get rid of me that easy.” Then his hand is on Daryl’s arm, squeezing for the barest second, gentle and reassuring before it is gone. And Jesus, Paul, is opening the door and slipping into the car. “You know where to find me.”_ _

__It’s almost a challenge and he even thinks the prick winks at him before he slams the door, starts the engine and gradually pulls away. He watches as it trundles down the dirt road, shrinking in the distance until he can see it no more._ _

__And he’s right. They both are. This isn't the last he’ll see of Paul Rovia._ _

__Neither of them could imagine just how broken he’ll be when that happens._ _

__He wanders over to help Abraham, bumping hips with Michonne as he passes her by, just to get a smile out of her, nods at Rick across the lot._ _

__They’ll be alright. They have each other._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Note the rating? Uh yeah.**

_**Now** _

When Paul finally wakes, Daryl is pressing him back into the bed before he can stop himself, caging him under his larger body. Hips rolling, hands everywhere; his hair, his jaw line, the smoothness of his throat, his hips, sliding under his shirt to the firm planes of his chest. He’s working up a desperate rhythm with his whole body, pressing into the growing hardness between Paul’s legs like an animal in heat. It’s not exactly tender, but it’s so damn _good._ The man goes from considerably sleepy and startled, to eyes clouded over with lust in less than two seconds. He has the briefest moment to feel smug about that before Paul is yelping.

“Good morning to you too - ah _Daryl_!” 

His name is muffled because he’s kissing him then, really kissing him, biting at those plush lips, running his tongue over Paul’s, smooth and graceless, tasting. The morning breath isn’t great and he’s sure his own can’t be much better but this doesn’t have to be pretty. He’s panting heavily, getting his hands under Paul’s shapely ass now, yanking his hips flush against his own until the smaller man is groaning, helplessly bucking up into him and Daryl is catching each noise with a brutal kiss, mouthing at him, hot and heavy. Paul’s hands are tight in his hair and finally he’s kissing back, gasping, hips circling, nails scraping down the back of his neck. Paul’s kisses are always incredible, all firm and confident, filled with passion, coaxing you to new levels of desire especially when he’s gasping Daryl’s name like that. Like he wants him as much as Daryl needs him too. When they first got together he was content to do this all day, growing drunk on his kisses, desperate just to touch, though he’d never admit it…

He pulls away from the kiss for a moment which has Daryl snarling, trying to pull him back. 

“Guess you missed me then?” He laughs breathlessly as Daryl grinds into him in answer, now unbearably hard.

He attacks his long expanse of neck then, tasting the fine sheen of sweat with his tongue, scraping his teeth down his jugular where the blood beats fast. His mind reels with desire when Paul tips his head to one side to allow him better access, he’s sucks a mark there until Paul is moaning, spasming against him. Then he’s pinning his arms to the pillow, gripping hard as he grinds against him, taking what he needs, Paul responding with enthusiasm as he looks up at him through long lashes, bodies working together, hot and desperate.

“You’re late.” Daryl growls, delving in for another rough kiss. He releases one hand so he can run his hand down his body, reaching down to undo the zipper on Paul’s jeans. He tries to force his pants down in an uncoordinated mess which almost has him elbowing his partner in the face.

“Daryl, come on now, hey!” Paul’s laughing, tapping him on the shoulder now, pulling back. His lips are red and swollen, hair messed and sweaty, pupils blown with lust until there’s more pupil than blue. He is the most gorgeous thing Daryl has ever seen, still laughing, face flushed. Daryl leans down, takes a shaky, steadying breath and nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck where it’s safe and dark, trying to regain some semblance of control as his heart races, hazy with lust. “We’ve talked about this.” His low voice rumbles against Daryl’s face, although he doesn’t sound as though he particularly minds.

Paul’s hands are running through his hair soothingly though his breath is still ragged and he presses tellingly against Daryl’s thigh, wriggling against him. He can hear Paul’s heartbeat racing beneath his heated skin. “You don’t need to have everything at once, remember?” He sits up a little, palming Daryl’s face. Daryl turns his face into his touch, facial hair scratching, eyes heavy. “We can go slow.”

He can’t handle the affection in those kind eyes, looks away. His words remind him of when they first got together, never really making a conscious decision, just coming together naturally. Sometimes the feeling of Paul’s body against his would make something inside of him snap, so new and right and he’d need him naked, pressed against the entire length of his body, and to preferably be inside of him as soon as safely possible. Every sensation so new and exciting, Paul’s touch making him damn near crazy, needing everything at once. He’s never had this before, nothing remotely like this.

It’s easy for Paul to say that, _go slow_ , but there are still times when he feels like he can’t stop, like this is a miracle that can’t last so he needs it all right now in case the world tries to take it back, realises it’s made a massive mistake, he doesn’t get to have this. He chooses not to say any of this, instead asking: “I hurt ya?”

“What?” Paul’s eyes widen in surprise and he lifts one hand to cup his cheek, fingers gentle. “No. I’d have said if you did.” Daryl briefly turns his face into Paul’s hold, presses a kiss onto his palm. Then regretfully sits back, trying to regain some kind of self control. His hands start to lightly run up and down Paul’s lean body, pawing at him again, under his top. He loves the shape of him, finding something new every time. This time, it’s his hips, the way they narrow, the angular lines running down his pelvis. He traces them, squeezing firmly.

The other man stares at him, seemingly reading his expression with those eyes, so soft and understanding he almost can’t bear it. There’s a wicked thought that whispers: _One day, the memory of those eyes will hurt so bad it will take your breath away…_ But he’s not losing Paul. Not ever, if he can help it. He shakes the thought away, though its presence still haunts him with its terrible plausibility. Just like when Beth prophesied her own death,  teasing him, how he would miss her so bad…

Paul is kissing him then, possibly reading the sadness in his expression. He pulls himself back into the moment which is fine enough. More than fine. The kiss smoulders, leaves him breathless. Paul pauses before seemingly coming to a decision. To his pleasure, Paul is pulling his own shirt over his head, before crawling into his lap. He’s straddling him and suddenly there is miles of skin in his hands, beautiful, smooth and hot to the touch and how Paul expects him to go slow when he looks and feels _like that_ … He trails a hand over his back, and feels his resulting shiver, other hand gripping his waist tight.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?” The scout teases, voice low and unbearably sexy, lips inches from his own.

“How’d it go?” He mumbles obediently, already rocking up into the promising heat of him. He pushes Paul’s hair back softly, if a little shakily. He presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes and breathes, just enjoying being completely surrounded by him, holding him.

“It went amazing thanks for asking, found lots of good stuff -”

“ _You’re_ amazing.” He interrupts, wishing he could keep his mouth shut when they’re like this because he knows Paul will be suppressing a Jesus-smirk at that. But then Paul’s hands are on his skin, ghosting over old scars, thinking. He hopes he knows. How he feels. It’s not the words he really wants to say, but hopes he can hear them anyway, can feel them in every move he makes around him. His hands are back in Paul’s hair now, scratching gently, growing less polite. He’s still so hard, achingly so. He feels as though his fever is back but in a really good way, restless yes, but so very excited. He squirms into the weight above him. Looks up at him beseechingly.

The morning light is playing across his face, eyes blazing like the morning sky itself. He looks radiant. It makes his heart ache and he’s drowning in him once more.

“Got held up by a herd that was going the other way but we’re fine.” He sighs, trailing his thumb over Daryl’s cheekbone all the way to his lips. Daryl tongues at the digit helplessly, making Paul shiver. “ _I’m_ fine.” He emphasises, hands running over the muscles of Daryl’s chest, catching the peaks of his nipples in a way that has him repressing a moan. “I’m here and we’re together.” 

Something in him uncoils at his words, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He’s dragging that face to his own, hands tangled in his hair, kissing him passionately but gentler this time, as though he is something precious until Paul’s pulling back. He’s wrinkling his nose and smiling and it is honest to God adorable. He’s reminded of the first time he made him eat squirrel and smiles at the memory.

“What?” He asks his lover.

His eyes have that mischievous glint. “It’s just… Are you feeling better? I don’t want to screw a sick person, that’s just unhygienic and gross and- ah!”

And then Daryl is pressing him back into the pillows once more, showing him just how much strength he’s recovered exactly. He’s making him laugh by licking his cheek, scratching his face with his stubble, and scrabbling at all his sensitive spots with his thumbs (mainly the rib area) and he can’t get enough of his laughter, so unreserved, eyes screwed shut, body juddering, bed rattling with it. So then the slobbering becomes kissing, and the tickling less frivolous, more purposeful, hands resuming their mission from before, he licks his hand before sliding down his pants so he can wrap his hand around his firm length. Paul gasps and bucks into his obligingly cupped hand, face alight with stark pleasure.

“Shoulda let me shower first,” He’s gasping out, smiling and pulling him closer, body winding tighter and tighter as Daryl’s hand works a steady rhythm, not too fast, still teasing. He’s propped over him with one hand so they are face to face, drinking in his reaction. He makes him sweat and writhe, enjoying being dominant for once, wanting to bring him pleasure, something only he gets to see now. They need to be quick, someone’ll come knocking. This is them saying hello, getting reacquainted. Tonight however… He’ll take him apart even slower, will push deep inside of him. He’s whispering this into Paul’s ear, confessing earnestly, before he can help himself, making the younger man groan helplessly.

“You’re too much,” He gasps out, scrubbing a hand over his face, biting his lip. 

“You’re perfect.” Daryl growls and the gasps and moans he wrings out of Paul are noises he’ll cherish until the day he dies, no matter how soon that could be. He feels so alive when he’s with him. And finds he is able to go slow now, face to face, memorising every little detail, and it is better. Paul is gripping the sheets, body arching, toned muscles tensing. His hips are snapping, fucking Daryl’s fist. The hunter leans down to lap up a drop of sweat that runs down his chest, hand never stopping its torturous pace and Paul is groaning, almost pained, hair damp with sweat. 

“Daryl…” His eyes are closed and the way he gasps Daryl’s name sets his nerves alight.

His face is now an inch away, “Look at me.” Daryl orders and so Paul does, eyes bleary with pleasure, mouth open slightly, a lush cupid’s bow. He’s writhing against the mattress, right into Daryl’s body, as though it is too much. He slips his thumb over the slit of his cock, spreading the slickness until Paul’s eyes are practically rolling and he’s fucking his hand in earnest now, body wound so tight, so near the end…

Daryl’s capturing his cry as he comes, kissing him so hard, hand still moving all the way through it until it’s almost too much and Paul is crying out and then, only then, does he finally stop.

He kneels back on his haunches to take in his handwork whilst wiping his hand on the bedding. 

Paul looks fucked out. Shivering, sleepy, a satisfied smile curving his full lips. There’s a beautiful flush down his whole body, glistening with perspiration. He swoops down for another kiss, Paul mouthing desperately, dirtily, tongue fucking his mouth until the little ninja is flipping their position so he’s under him like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Daryl is glad because he’s so hard it’s painful and has been for some time… 

Paul shuffles back, straddling his knees and Daryl’s knows what’s coming, can barely lie still, body tensing with eager anticipation. Paul looks down at him, still breathing heavy, a wicked glint in his eyes and even when he’s a mess he’s still the hottest thing Daryl has ever laid eyes on. He glances at Daryl’s erection, incased in cotton, smirks a little and it’s a testament to how far gone Daryl is that he isn’t tempted to swat at him.

“Lucky, lucky me. I should go away more often,” A slow smile spreads across his face and Daryl suddenly wishes he could throw a shoe at him. He flushes an even deeper shade of red, temperature rocketing as he tries not to whimper, refuses to beg. Then he takes in his words, teasing though they may be…

“Don’t you dare.” And it comes out far more serious than Daryl intended, voice cracking at the end. Paul reaches down, takes his hand in his and lays a tender kiss on the palm, echoing Daryl’s actions earlier. This has Daryl’s heart thumping ridiculously fast for an act so chaste. He’s been inside this man for goodness sake. Paul laps at his wrist, sucking a bruise there which has Daryl grunting, before moving on.

Then Paul is leaning down, kissing his neck, hot and wet, beard scratching sensitive skin. He marks a trail down his chest, mouthing at each nipple in turn until they are hard and aching. This is something Daryl particularly loves though he has never admitted it, Paul just knows apparently. It has him gripping at his hair desperately, hips rocking into him wantonly. When Paul uses that sinful mouth and bites a little, it rips a ragged groan right out of him.

“There you are…” It’s almost reverential. The breath against his chest, those wide eyes, gleaming triumphantly up at him, still blown with lust… It’s almost too much. It has him pressing Paul’s head back down impatiently and the man is obediently mouthing at the other nipple, biting harder, mouth hot and wet until his head is spinning. Paul’s hand works the other; pulling, pinching, before his tongue is lapping just the right amount until Daryl is leaking, cock throbbing. He’s grunting out the odd word which is practically babbling for him: “Please. More. Need you.” 

Paul is merciful, gives him one full on kiss to the mouth before trailing kisses down his sternum, his stomach, hair tickling and scraping the whole way until it’s brushing his thighs, breath cool and teasing on his oversensitive cock, still hidden under cotton. He lingers just long enough for Daryl to start sweating. “You’re so gorgeous,” He whispers, looking up at him with eyes so sincere his throat closes up briefly. 

“Mm yeah, and you.” He rushes out breathlessly, eyes practically rolling back as Paul caresses the skin of his inner thighs, pulling his underwear out of the way, so sensitive, hands talented. His hands ghost over his lower stomach and his insides squirm, following his touch it would seem. His hands find a path to his ass, squeezing just so until he is whining low in his throat, hands on the back on Paul’s neck, encouraging.

“‘And me’ what?” Paul teases. He hoped he’d leave it there, but that was Paul. Encouraging him to be more open, more vocal and honest both in and out of the bedroom.

So he tries. He really does. “Beautiful.” It’s practically a cough and he can see confusion flicker across Paul’s face so he elaborates, determined not to wuss out. “I said you’re beautiful, asshole. Like this - always.” He amends, face now surely aflame. Paul himself certainly looks pinker. He’s cupping his face, eyes filled with emotion, locked on Daryl’s gaze deliberately, as he lowers his head, kisses his hipbone softly, before taking him all the way into his mouth, no messing around, no teasing.

It’s bliss, it’s heaven and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. His tongue draws out clever patterns as he takes him in so deep, right into the tightness of his throat, eyes closing with concentration, lashes long and lips so full. His hair falls over his face, tickling Daryl’s sensitive skin and he’s crying out, hands grasping at his hair, trying desperately not to buck up into that overwhelming heat, so wet and good and perfect and _oh god…_

And Paul’s pulling off for a moment, kissing the soft skin of his inner thighs before murmuring a confession against his skin, “I missed you too.” Then he’s taking Daryl back into his mouth, sucking intensely, kissing the head messily, licking, lapping before bobbing up and down, no teasing, intent on finishing him off as no one else can.

As far as reunions go, it’s a pretty good one, in Daryl’s opinion anyway.

 

_____________________  
 _ **Before**_

 

He has to get the hell out of here.

His heart is pounding with adrenaline yet he is strangely calm, as always when surrounded by enemies. Negan has the boy. Of course he does. How else could that have ended? Kid was on some kind of kamikaze mission to kill Negan and he just let him go. Course, Carl wasn’t his responsibility, but he should’ve kicked him out of the truck, ordered him home, acted like a grown up for once. That just wasn’t him though. He admired the kid’s resolve, so much like his dad. Least this way, he figured he could watch out for him. Look how that had turned out, the kid had tricked him so easily. Oh God. What would Rick say when he finds out? What would Daryl -

But Daryl isn’t there anymore. They took him. He’s gone, here or more likely at one of the many other Saviour outposts, injured and chained up or god knows what else they’ve been doing to him. The thought makes him sick. He scrabbles for purchase on top of the lorry, digging his nails into smooth metal to draw himself back to the moment at hand. It’s worse than feeling sick, this feeling of helplessness, the uncertainty of not knowing what they’re doing to him, if he’s even still alive. The endless nasty possibilities are somehow worse than such a grim finality. 

He listens as Carl is bundled into the truck, surprised, but intensely relieved that the leader of the Saviours didn’t just kill Carl straight away. At least, he assumes the leather wearing, baseball bat wielding man is the infamous Negan. Instead he’s driving off with him and how can that mean anything good? He lies flat against the roof, making himself unseen, listening.

Then he hears it.

“Daryl!” 

Colours drain from the world momentarily. The single word makes his whole body jolt and he has to force himself to remain still, scared he’ll give himself away. Can’t be. No. It’s just because he was thinking about him… He strains his ears, body trembling as the psycho continues: “You seem worried so I’m taking the kid home.”

_No, it can’t be…_

“You do anything to him…“ 

It _is._ He knows that voice, that menacing growl, thought about it every night since he’d been taken and _now_ … He’s peering over the edge of the truck before he can stop himself, breaking his own rules: remain unseen; get in, get out.

“Dwight! Daryl needs a time out. Put him back in his box for a while.”

His _box?_

He was supposed to find out where Negan is based, to report back to Sasha, work out a plan, or at least stick with the kid until he is safe (Negan in Alexandra again? Definitely not good). As soon as he sees the man he knows there’s no way that’s happening. Because it’s _him,_ it’s Daryl. He’s _alive,_ standing on his own two feet, hair matted with filth, wearing some kind of stained uniform, but mercifully whole. No parts cut off, no extreme bruises, much better than the beaten Daryl of his imagination. And he can talk, he can threaten! Jesus’ heart quickens and he nearly smiles as a wave of relief threatens to overcome him. He covers his grin, tugs his hands through his hair, pulling himself together. 

He glances again, noticing something wrong with Daryl’s movements, hunched, beaten down but that air of defiance is there. They haven’t broken him. He’s still Daryl. He hates the way that ‘Dwight’ - scar-faced dirty blond - drags him along like an animal. Forces down a flicker of rage as he needs to be calm and fast. He knows he’s not leaving this place without Daryl. And just like that, he knows he’s going to succeed. 

It isn’t even a conscious decision, he sees the man and he’s moving, slipping over the side of the truck, blending in with the chained walkers. He thinks he sees Daryl glancing up at him for the barest moment as he’s dragged away, but cannot be sure.

The only thing he does know is that there is no way he’s leaving Daryl in this hellhole.

And if he gets his hands on this Dwight, the man’s deader than the things chained to their fence.

__________________________

 

The man looks so scared. Frozen, overweight, helpless, he backs away from Daryl as though he were a rabid animal. Throws some pleading words at him that mean less than nothing. He’s one of them. He’ll call out for help, tell on him. They’ll shut him back in his cage and throw away the key, back on Easy Street until there’s nothing left to scrape together. He can’t go back there. They’ve beaten him, tortured him, humiliated him. They are Negan. All of them, every last one. Doesn’t matter what he says. They killed Glenn. They killed Abraham. The metal bar is in his hands and he’s going for the man, using it over and over and over again, jarring with the impact, breaking bones, breaking everything, until the man is no more, until he’s unidentifiable, just a stain on the earth like his friends were, until he can’t hurt him anymore. All that fear, all that rage, all that helplessness. He obliterates him, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop…

“Daryl.”

He thinks he hears something. Someone, filtering through. A voice he knows. Soft, appealing, familiar. Eventually, he manages to make himself stop striking out at the man. Eventually.

“Daryl…” 

It’s him. He _did_ see him. He did come for him. He looks up, flinching slightly in case he’s wrong but he’s here. Jesus. _Paul._ He experiences a rush of complicated emotions; elation, fear, horror, shame, hope… it leaves him feeling numb. He’s really here. Same as he’s always looked. All clean, and long hair and those huge, worried eyes… Staring at the dead man on the floor, at what Daryl has done. 

He glances up at Daryl, but there’s no horror in that look, only shock and concern. He immediately feels ashamed, is filled with the ridiculous urge to try and justify himself to this man, to make him understand. 

He turns away instead, drops the bar in case Jesus thinks he’s going to use it on him. He looks at what he has done and sees that his first instincts were right, the man, Joey whatever, _did_ have a gun. He scoops it up, breathing heavy, hiding under his hair. He _needs_ to make him understand.

“Ain’t just about getting by here. It’s about getting it all.” He murmurs in a daze. And right now all he wants to do is get away from here. To make sure Jesus is as far away from here as possible. This is a bad place. Look at what it’s done to him, what he had to do.

He staggers away to the closest bike, not daring to look at the other man, scared of what he’ll see there. Fear, rejection…

“I got the key, let’s go.”

It is a great relief when he hears the man follow, feels Jesus’s arms wrap around him. A sign he isn’t so horrified by his actions that he can’t stand to be near him. That’s a start. He wonders why he’s here, it must mean something. .. But does it matter though?

“To Hilltop.” Is all Jesus says to him, gently inviting him home. His hands are on his waist, firm and yet careful not to hurt him. It doesn’t seem real, to be touched with something close to care after so long. He turns the key, revs the engine. On this bike, with this man, he feels some of his humanity gradually return to him, a dulled sense of exhilaration.

“Alright.” 

__________________________

 

They don’t stop riding until they’re safe back in Hilltop.

Daryl’s movements are slow, stiff and painful. When residents of Hilltop flock to them upon their arrival, Jesus wards them off with a shake of his head. Daryl isn’t ready for that yet, flinching at their approach.

However there are some reunions that cannot be avoided, nor should they be. Daryl is immediately embraced by Sasha, who is often found on gate duty, hating to not be active. Daryl leans into her touch, albeit quite stiffly.

“Thank you,” She mouths over Daryl’s shoulder at him, eyes shining though no tears fall. She’s a tough one that girl, Jesus likes her a lot.

“Wasn’t all me,” Jesus admits. “His cell door was open when I got there…” He begins but he doubts either of them is listening. Daryl leans on her smaller frame for a moment and she grips his hair. 

“I’ve got someone who would really love to see you.” She says gently, finally pulling away. Jesus hovers awkwardly, already feeling like an intruder in this private moment. When Sasha leads him gently by the wrist over to the orchards, where Maggie can often be found gardening, he slips away quietly, but not before the injured man manages to send him a fearful look over his shoulder. No doubt worried about Maggie’s reaction. He wishes he’d thought about that before, so he could spare him some pain. Maggie holds no ill feelings towards him - he doubts she is even capable of that - only love and a desperation to have him back. There is only one person to blame for Glenn’s death: the one who wielded the bat.

He’s at a loss over what to do now. He can admit it, he wants to take care of the other man. He knows he has one of the only warm showers in the camp, running off of a rapidly diminishing propane supply that is hooked up to his trailer, his only indulgence. The warmth would do him some good. He has even sourced some clothes that should just about fit Daryl’s broad frame, laid them out in his tiny bathroom, just in case. The girls have been sharing his trailer lately, perhaps he should have offered them a place to reconnect?

He flashes back to the way Sasha was able to hold him, offering simple comfort. The Alexandrian family ties run deep. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t envious. He has no one like that here. A part of him wants to hold the other man himself. Lead pipe killer or not - that wasn’t his fault, he firmly shuts that thought down. He was like a cornered, traumatised animal. He doubts he’ll ever get the full story out of Daryl, of what he has suffered. That wasn’t his style, more the suffer in silence type.

He passes the time by straightening up his trailer before sitting heavily at his living area table. He picks up a battered copy of _Of Mice and Men_ , barely taking in a word, having to stop before poor old Lennie gets it. His innocence and strength feeling uncomfortably apt right now.

He drops the paperback to the table, scrubs his hands over his eyes, leans back in his chair. He tries to keep images of the day out of his mind, Daryl’s hunched posture, Carl riding off with Negan, Daryl beating that man to death… Thoughts of what is happening in Alexandria right now are even worse. The knock at the door is practically a welcome distraction, though no one ever calls by unless they need something.

He doggedly finds his feet and unlatches the door.

It’s Daryl. Still wearing his stolen clothes, grimy shirt hanging off him, hair tangled over his eyes. His shoulders are slumped, eyes on the ground, almost defeated. He sways on his feet from exhaustion.

“Maggie said I could find you here.” He says by way of explanation, not meeting his eyes, something tired and somehow hopeful in his voice.

Jesus is gently pulling him over the threshold and into his arms before he can stop himself.

He forgets that this is Daryl, who reacts like a wild animal when confronted with touch or affection, just sees the tired and vulnerable man in front of him. He wants to help, to comfort, to hold. So he does.

The man smells bad but he can’t bring himself to care. Daryl’s whole body stiffens at first and Jesus thinks he’s going to lash out. But then he staggers into him, forcing Jesus to take a few steps back. He simply melts into him. His frame trembles lightly as Jesus buries his face into the crook of his neck, their height difference never more apparent. Jesus wraps his arms around his back, not too tight, and simply holds him, flat of his hand stroking gently. He’s surprised when the man leans into him just like he did with Sasha except this is different. He never nuzzled his face into her hair, shivered against her touch. He never awkwardly slung his arms around her waist, bringing them even closer together. He grips a handful of greasy hair, runs his fingers through it soothingly, playing with the smaller hairs at his nape for at least a minute, Daryl sighing into his neck. The other man inhales deeply, seemingly taking in the scent of him. It makes Jesus’ legs weaken momentarily, his breath hitch, all the little cliches he didn’t know could be real.

“Thanks.” The word comes out roughly, vibrating right down his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin. “For doin’ what you did.” The gruff admission tickles against his ear and Daryl pulls back a little, hands now loosely placed on his waist as though they belonged there. Jesus felt ridiculously small in his hands. It was kind of nice.

He let his hands slip round to those firm arms incased in unfamiliar material that didn’t suit him. Then slowly, reached up to push the tangle of sweaty hair out of his eyes, tried to make it as impersonal a gesture as possible so he wouldn’t freak out. It’s just he’d be unable to admit this if he couldn’t actually see those dark eyes, gage his reaction.

“I tried.” He admitted, feeling like a fraud. “When I got there the cell door was already open…”

“That don’t matter.” The hands clenched almost possessively at his waist and Jesus’ stomach did a hopeful little flip. “You tried. I won’t forget it.”

They stay like that, so close, holding on to each other though bodies separate by a crucial few inches. Daryl seems to be analysing every tiny detail about Jesus’ eyes. It makes him feel absurdly naked but he lets him look.

“I left some clean clothes in the bathroom if you wanna…” He trails off again, throat insanely dry, distracted by the man’s proximity. 

Daryl hums and he thinks he sees a flicker of almost amusement in his eyes. “You saying I smell?”

There’s no polite way of getting out of this one. “Let’s just say I’m probably going to have to burn those clothes.”

He snorts and pulls away, limping towards the bathroom. Dammit. The sudden loss leaves Jesus feeling shaken, immediately missing his touch, craving it. He has to remind himself that’s not what he’s here for. This isn’t about him.

“You need any help?” It slips out and he’s internally cursing again, hoping it didn’t sound like a come on. “I mean, if you’re injured.” He hastily adds. 

The hunter pauses, peers over his shoulder. Yep, definitely amusement in those eyes. “Think you’ve done enough.”

He thinks there’s another thank you buried in those words, but Daryl’s already staggered out of sight before he can unravel their meaning.

When Daryl is freshly washed and dressed (hair damp though he doubts Daryl shampooed it) he heats up some chicken soup for him, thinning it slightly, nothing too rich. Doesn’t flinch when Daryl slurps the boiling broth straight down before Jesus is even on his second spoonful. It’s strangely peaceful, sitting with him, sun slanting in through the windows. He leaves the door open so a warm breeze can drift in. Daryl looks more comfortable that way, having been locked up for so long, no doubt.

He studies the other man thoughtfully before coming to a decision. “You can stay here if you like. Long as you need,” He needs the peace of the Hilltop. Daryl looks up, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Jesus tries not to react. That was Alex’s shirt that he left here the last time all those months ago. Never mind, looks good on him. A strand of wet hair falls over his eye and it actually pains Jesus not to reach out and push it back. They’re not doing that anymore, he senses.

He elaborates, realising what that must have sounded like. What is wrong with his mouth today? “I mean, you can stay here, in Hilltop. You don’t have to stay with me, obviously… Not that I’d mind. Maggie and Sasha crash here sometimes, so it may get a little crowded…” 

Daryl raises his eyebrows but otherwise mercifully ignores his rambling. “Think Gregory’ll have somethin’ to say about that.”

“Think Gregory won’t have a choice if it’s what you want.” The underlying anger surprises him but he means it. He wants to keep him safe. They both know Daryl can’t go home, so why not stay here? It’ll be risky, but they’re already harbouring Maggie. What’s one more fugitive? He tries not to come to blows with Gregory if he can avoid it, the man keeps threatening to dump the entire responsibility of the community on him, something he’s not ready for. But this is one thing he won’t back down on.

“I’ll think about it.”

They finish their meals in relative quiet (apart from Daryl’s slurping, man got a mouth like a vacuum, Jesus’ mind sniggers). At one point, he finds himself explaining the plot of _Of Mice and Men_ after Daryl thumbs at the cover absentmindedly. He’s not really sure if the man’s listening, eyes sometimes far away, often flinching at any noises outside. It tears at his heart to see him like this. He eats food like he’s not sure he’ll ever see it again.

“Sounds sad,” He offers, when Jesus is done babbling.

“It is sad,” He admits. “But also beautiful, hopeful. It’s two outsiders trying to find their place in a harsh world.” He sighs. “My sister loved it - Lia. Her name was Lia.” It feels strange to say that name again after so long.

“You had a sister?” Daryl puts his spoon down, eyes fixed on Jesus in that x-ray vision way of his. He feels like he’s drawing the information out with a genuine, flattering interest this time, rather than pinning him in place.

“Had three.” He answers with a sad smile. “She was the eldest. Then Shannon, Madison was younger than me.” It hurts to remember them. A sad but good ache, lost now. House empty and abandoned once he’d finally made his way home. He tried but all he found was -

He shuts the memory down entirely. Too painful. 

He closes his eyes. “They could be right brats sometimes.” He reminiscences. “But they were kind. Babied me something terrible. Tried to raise me right.” 

They had also accepted him without hesitation. He’d love them forever for that alone. His parents hadn’t been so understanding, hadn’t been very parental either. Truth was, he’d lost his family long before the world ended. His sisters had tried to hide their predicament from the authorities, to stay together, but someone always tells. They’d been separated. He ended up in a group home. But now wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself, not after all Daryl had been through.

He opens his eyes, pushing down the pain, only to find Daryl staring at him.

“’M’sorry,” He murmured. The thumbnail found his mouth once more and it was so endearingly familiar he could laugh. The hunter clearly had no idea what to say, but still found the right thing.

“We’ve all lost something.” He answered, appreciating the only condolence he’d ever received for his sisters. Daryl’s hand leaves his mouth and they remain staring, analysing as the seconds tick by. He wants to ask him what he’s been through, if he’s going to be okay, doesn’t know how to get him to open up. Instead he finds his hand reaching across for Daryl’s. What’s even more surprising is the man meets him half way. He tries to convey his questions in the clutch of his hand, in a look alone.

Daryl’s hand is warm, rough and dry. He stares down at their linked hands as though startled by this development.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Jesus says instead, realising he can’t make such promises, no one can, but knowing he’d give anything to make it true. He looks at their clasped hands, Daryl’s larger and more tanned. A current seems to run right down his arm. He wonders whether Daryl can feel it too.

“Paul…” He begins.

He doesn’t get to finish. There’s a commotion coming from outside.

“They’re here!” 

It doesn’t sound alarmed, so it can’t be the Saviours. Still it’s enough to make Daryl is tear his hand away, on his feet so fast he knocks the chair over in his haste. His defensive posture reminds Jesus of that time in the woods, and he has a blade on him that Jesus didn’t even know he was carrying. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“It’s them! It’s Rick and the others!”

“Let them in!” Sasha’s voice rings clear across the colony. He sees an expression of mingled anxiety and longing pass over Daryl’s features before it’s replaced by his usual mask of stoicism.

But not quite. It’s his eyes. There’s a distinct sheen to them and Jesus just knows he is barely holding it together. 

Daryl is sheathing his knife as Jesus makes his way round to him. He gently places a hand on Daryl’s shoulder and he starts at the touch. Back to normal then.

“Ready to see your family?’ He asks gently. 

Daryl stills, then gives a single nod. He doesn’t run, just slowly but steadily walks out of the door. 

Jesus takes a steadying breath, then follows.

He suspects he’ll always be following this man, as long as he needs him.

_________

He ends up at the Kingdom. They leave him there. With a king. And a tiger. And occasionally Carol.

The tiger likes him apparently.

Seeing Carol feels like coming home. They embrace, tears fall, she feeds him. Then he lies to her, has to. Lies to protect her, to save her from herself. So obviously, he can’t stay there any longer after that. He can’t stay with lies between them, one of the only people on this planet he is certain he truly loves, so he leaves. 

His feet take him back to Hilltop, an incredibly dangerous journey considering he is a hunted man, but worth the risk. When he gets there, he makes a camp outside of Jesus’ trailer - _Paul’s, Paul’s trailer…_ Consisting of little more than a comfy seat and campfire, it isn’t so different from those weeks at the Greene’s farm. 

He tries to stay out of Maggie’s way.

Sometimes Paul joins him in the evening. He’s not quite sure when he became Paul to him. Maybe right around the time the man decided he was worth a damn, worth risking his ass to save anyway. Not many people have thought that about him in his life.

He tries to coax him into his trailer but he won’t go. Maggie’s there. She doesn’t need the guy who cost her her husband’s life right in her face all day long. And Paul’s in there too of course, it’s his trailer. Might end up hugging again or something weird like that. Wouldn’t want that. Those were special circumstances anyway, he was an exhausted wreck. 

It’s not like he wants to go around hugging people like some besotted schoolgirl. He guesses he must have looked extremely shitty to inspire great pity and physical affection from so many people in such a short space of time. People should learn to keep their hands to themselves, in his own damn opinion, no matter how godawful he looks. 

Paul’s hugs make him feel strange anyway. Weak but drawing something that feels a lot like strength from them at the same time. Comfy yet extremely uncomfortable in his skin, restless and peaceful at the same time. It makes no sense so it’s better to avoid any repeat scenarios all together. Not like Paul is lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce on him with another hug anyway, man’s busy.

Occasionally scouting, training members of Hilltop to use knives, to fight back. For their homes, their futures. Paul is quick with his moves, hands moving sinuously, like magic. Maggie is the only one who comes close to replicating his skills. They grow closer. Daryl keeps to himself.

Sometimes when Paul comes over and joins him by his campfire at night, they talk. Or Paul talks, Daryl listens, depending on his mood. Gradually it becomes something of a routine, a way to unwind. One time, Paul offers to show him some fighting moves, Daryl politely declines (“Hell no!”). Sparring’s a slippery slope towards more touching. He needs to be focused on the oncoming fight, doesn’t need no pretty boys messing with his head.

Paul’s a surprisingly good listener though. He finds himself grudgingly telling him about all kinds of things on different nights, using his words sparingly. What had happened to him at Sanctuary (Paul had listened, eyes sympathetic, but hands clenched into tight fists). His childhood with Merle once his mom died (similar reaction, though his chupacabra story had got him grinning. _Ass._ ). Then some of the happier stuff. Life with Rick and the others. Funny how the world had to end before he could find a place in it. Paul coaxes out some of his best tales of fighting walkers, shared over a campfire with canned goods. It helps. He finds that he wants to share. And maybe, just maybe to impress the other man a little bit. Possibly.

“So there were a thousand walkers in the quarry?”

“At least.”

“And you were just leading them along?”

“Yeah.”

“On your _bike?_ ” Paul’s voice cracked, eyes alight with disbelief.

Daryl looked at Paul as though he were being particularly slow. “Well yeah… How else was I s'posed steer them away from home?”

Paul had blinked then, small smile playing on his face, wanting to bloom. Daryl could read him well. “You’re completely insane.” He had declared.

Daryl had just shrugged, tucked into his can of beans. “Probably.”

Anything to delay the nightmares. Talking, and mostly listening, did seem to help. He gradually found himself becoming less jumpy, more focused.

In turn, Paul had told him about his life before, about group home once his parents had stopped being able to cope with raising him (“It was okay. I became like a group leader to all the little kids there. And the rest…Well, you just gotta learn to run faster.”). He offered up his own best walker kill - “Drop kicked it’s head clean off, like a football!” Even delved into the evolution of the Jesus nickname. 

“I guess it all started with the beard…” He began thoughtfully.

“Before the world ended?”

“Before the world ended.” He confirmed. “I was pulling a few cons, learning new tricks, got really good at them-”

“Like your Houdini bullshit?” Daryl interrupted, remembering how he’d escaped his bonds quick enough to get on the truck roof, first time they’d met.

Paul nodded, smirking slightly, one eyebrow raised in sly amusement. “You still sore about that sweetie?” He asked, blinking innocently.

Daryl glowered, flicked a bean at him. “Shuddup. Whole lotta food on that truck… Had me chasing you round like a damn headless chicken.”

He could see the way Paul tried to school his expression into something appropriately chastised. “I am sorry, Daryl, really.” He smiled and it did funny things to Daryl’s stomach, the way his eyes practically sparkled with mischief. He just knew he was about to say something ridiculous. “What can I say? Always loved getting all the boys to chase me.”

Daryl had snorted in derision, thrown a stick at him for lack of better ammunition (firewood). Paul had ducked with an ease that was infuriating.

 “So anyway,” Paul had continued, plucking a stray splinter out of his locks. “I grew my hair out and a boyfriend called me on it, the Jesus thing. Guess it just stuck.”

Boyfriend. The word has Daryl glaring into the fire all over again, though he’s not sure exactly why. Someone with whom Paul has a shared history, a life with, before all this horror movie shit. He wonders what he’d have been like back then. If he’d have given him the time of day. Probably not. If he’d ran into him with Merle he’d have been downright ugly towards Paul. The thought makes him deeply uncomfortable. He thinks he definitely would have noticed someone like Paul, in a bar. Never would have plucked up the courage to talk to him though. Wouldn't have let himself.

“You alright?” Paul had asked, pulling a dark woollen sweater over his head. _Man sure loves his layers._ It had swamped him in a way that wasn’t endearing at all. He pushed his hair back behind his neat little ears, producing a beanie from the pocket of his jeans, pulling it on firmly.

“Did you always know?” Daryl finds himself asking, not thinking too closely why.

“What?” Paul had leaned closer, flames illuminating his profile, the elegant slope of his nose, the curve of his full lips.

“You liked men.” 

As soon as the words were out there he wanted to stuff them back in. He was glad for the cover of darkness, feeling his face heat up, before deciding, _screw it._ He was curious, has always been blunt about things. Why should this be any different?

Paul had leaned back on his makeshift seat, a little packing crate he’d pulled up to keep Daryl company all those nights ago. Daryl had thought that he should really find him a decent seat, since Paul had found him the comfy chair and an extra thick sleeping bag. Least he could do.

Paul had looked surprised momentarily, eyebrow raised before affecting a casual air. Daryl was worried that he’d offended him until he spoke, just one word: “Yes.”

“Huh.” Daryl had answered articulately, not sure why there was such an atmosphere between them, charged with something not particularly unpleasant. He met those eyes over the fire, closed off his expression, just waited, wanting him to elaborate with a desperation that confused him.

“Just felt right, even with people telling me it was wrong.” Paul tried out a ‘what can you do?’ type of smile though it didn’t quite sit right. 

“Ain’t wrong.” Daryl found himself blurting out, feeling like a fool.

The smile had relaxed into something a little more genuine. “Not really needing affirmation but thanks anyway.” He’d teased. 

And that was when Daryl had thought he was going to ask. They always want to know, to label him. What sexuality was he? Daryl genuinely didn’t know how he’d answer, right there and then, with his eyes over the fire, how warm he was feeling. But Paul hadn’t asked, even though it would have been fair. He didn’t pry, electing to tell him about the time he’d seen a walker he’d sworn on his life was Mick Jagger (“He sure didn’t have the moves anymore…” “You’re a dork.”)

Daryl found he’d liked him all the more for it.

The next night, he finds himself talking about Carol, attempting to explain their complex relationship, what had happened at their last meeting. Paul takes it all in over the fire, eyes grave, reflecting the flames.

“So I lied,” He concludes lamely with a shrug, barely able to meet his eyes in shame.

“You did it because you were protecting her.” Paul says slowly, summing it up thoughtfully. 

Daryl doesn’t want his excuses. “It was stupid. She’s gonna find out.” He brings his thumb up to his mouth, chews on the nail anxiously.

“Yes, I’m sure she will. But then you’ll make it right.” Paul smiles softly, firelight making him glow. The sight makes Daryl’s chest tight for some unfathomable reason, his simple belief in him. “What you have sounds pretty special. I’m betting she’ll come around.”

“Was a damn coward. Didn’t want to explain about…” He trails off. Abraham. Glenn. His fault. Always his fault. Every night, going round and round in his head. He locks the thought away, it’s easier to do in the day. What else can he do? He’d go insane otherwise.

“You’d just been through a massive trauma at the Sanctuary,” Paul insists gently and Daryl wants to stop him, he shouldn’t make allowances. “Is it so wrong that you wanted to spare someone else the pain?”

He never thought of it that way before, longs to believe his motives weren’t entirely selfish. He knows they weren’t, sometimes the self-loathing makes it hard to remember things as they truly are. His throat feels tight and he stares into the flames.

“Besides, you love her.” Paul’s voice sounds oddly flat, wavering slightly. It isn’t a question or a judgement but for some reason the words make him even more anxious though he doesn’t know why.

He looks up and sees the other man is already moving away towards his trailer. “Get some rest." He calls out over his shoulder. "You’re a good man, Daryl. Not everything’s on you.”

He tries to believe that, really he does, but just knows it isn’t true.

Throughout the night, of all the things that haunt him about that conversation, it’s Paul’s words that keep repeating in his head, unnerving him. It’s surprising and unexpected. 

_“Besides, you love her…”_

It shouldn’t bother him so much. But it does.

At the crack of dawn he is awake, keeps himself busy. Sharpens his knives, helps with the harvest, lugs supplies from the small crop fields into the basement of Barrington House, over and over until his muscles are aching. Later in the day, he slopes off to the woods to watch Hilltop’s daily fight training lesson, War: 101, For Beginners. He finds out from Enid that Maggie is having a scan so doesn’t feel like he’s intruding. Paul is leading the group today, demonstrating a defence tactic. How to use your lighter weight to hurl an approaching enemy over your shoulder should they attack from behind. He’s not sure how this will help against armed Saviours but the class is rapt, fixated on Paul. 

Daryl slopes off to the side, leans against the shade of a tree, watching, almost separate from the group. Paul explains the concept clearly, patiently and it’s like you can trust him, something soothing yet authoritative in his voice. Daryl came expecting to poke fun at him, but finds himself paying attention. The man has his dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. He wants to scoff but the effect is admittedly quite attractive, long slope of neck, eyes exposed, also professional.

One of the larger men of Hilltop pretends to sneak up on Paul. He tiptoes over comedically like a cartoon villain. Paul has his hands on his hips, acting overly oblivious. The class laughs and Daryl rolls his eyes. Paul truly is a dork. The man grabs Paul’s slighter frame from behind, pulling him back against his body. Daryl tenses but is soon smothering a smirk when Paul grabs his wrist, bends forward sharply, effectively pulling the man over his shoulder, sending him crashing headfirst to the floor. The man’s expression is too surprised for Paul to have explained this part thoroughly to him. The class politely applauds, restraining laughter. 

Paul is smiling as he extends a hand to his dazed faux-attacker, eyes shining. The unsuspecting co-demonstrator accepts it willingly, is pulled to his feet and shakes his hands once he’s found them. They hold hands for a moment, Paul patting him on the back a few times in good humour, though there’s something awkward about the exchange as they break apart. The larger man’s name comes to him, the nurse, Alex. He doesn’t like him though can’t remember why. No one else seems to be watching, already partnering up to try out the new move.

He strolls over to Paul, though his feet feel ungainly and awkward. The man is stretching lightly, body lean and tense. He reaches out, taps him roughly on the shoulder.

“Daryl.” The smile that blooms across Paul’s face is warm and genuine, something twists pleasantly in his stomach. He wants to smile back so glowers to compensate. “What are you doing here? I kind of got the impression you thought our classes were stupid.”

He shrugs. “They gotta learn somewhere.” He smirks. “And you're a ninja.”

He grins even wider at that. “Wanna try and flip me?”

“What?” He stammers, face flushing.

“The move… Self defence? Hello? Were you even watching?” He teases as if half a dozen bodies aren’t being awkwardly slammed into the ground around them. _The Saviours will be pissing themselves for sure…_

“Thought it’s meant to be the other way round? Little guys flips big guy…” 

“You spoil my fun,” Paul winks at him good-naturedly, as if to show he’s joking and it’s like they’re back in Alexandria again, with the one-sided flirting, before he lost anything else, before he got taken. And it is one sided. The flirting. Definitely. He’s sure about that…

“Me and Carol are friends, just friends.” He blurts out in lieu of nothing, fully aware that he sounds like a complete lunatic. Paul’s wide, confused eyes seem to agree with him. He feels his face flood with colour but goes on regardless. “I don’t love her. I mean I do, but I ain’t in love with her.” Something seems to uncoil inside of him as the words pour out.

Paul’s confusion melts into something warmer, posture relaxing. A slow smile spreads across his handsome face. He steps closer: “Good.” It’s so quiet, he could choose to ignore him, if he wanted to. He honestly doesn’t know if he should. A few strands of hair have escaped his hairband in the breeze. Daryl doesn’t want to push them back.

“Still wanna help?” He pats Daryl on the arm, interrupting his thoughts. He leads him into the group before he can reply, following docilely. They walk over to a small blonde girl standing awkwardly by herself, barely out of her teens. Daryl has never said two words to her before. “Make yourself useful. Attack Katie here for me would you?”

_What?!_

“Ah Paul…” He growls, a warning. “Hell no.”

“I’m good too thanks…” Katie insists, looking at Daryl in something close to alarm.

“Katie, you can do this, he’s pussy cat.” He smiles sweetly at her, resistance is futile. “Daryl, please?”

“Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Paul warns, eyes glinting.

“I could help…” It’s Alex, hovering, course it fucking is. “You’re still healing and I-”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” He spits out. Poor Katie now looks plain horrified. 

He sighs, painfully. Feels he should reassure her somehow, though why that’s become his problem he doesn’t know. Guess he just wants to show he is every bit as capable as Alex. “Lighten up. You ain’t gonna be the one getting their ass handed to them.” Paul laughs and it helps to break the tension a little.

Then as per Paul’s instructions, he reluctantly positions himself behind the nervous girl, still feeling this is ten kinds of wrong, as Paul guides her through the defence tactic. His tone is gentle, supportive, encouraging her to use gravity and her small weight to her advantage, he believes in her, puts her at ease. Daryl remembers he once said he was a teacher and it isn’t so hard to believe anymore. If they were all like this, he might have stayed in school. 

At Paul’s command he grabs her as lightly as possible and she attempts to hurl him over her shoulder. It’s a move he could easily counter but doesn’t, choses to go sprawling to his ass on her third attempt like an idiot instead. Nearby spectators applaud and laugh with disturbing enthusiasm which isn’t too humiliating or anything. 

But teacher-Paul is beaming at his student with pride and she’s looking at him with something close to adoration, cheeks flushed pink. Lost cause there, kid… But so’s Alex, he sees from his vantage point on the floor. A flicker of annoyance flares up in his stomach at the sight.

When Paul offers him his hand he almost doesn’t take it, before changing his mind. He grips with more force than necessary, ends up right in Paul’s face, wincing from the ache in his muscles. He rubs his shoulder absentmindedly. 

"You okay?" Paul asks, eyes sparkling no doubt with the prospects of mocking him after being injured by a girl half his size.

"Been lugging crops all day," He hastily explains and when Paul places a hand on his shoulder, kneading a little, he doesn't pull away. It hurts, but real good.

“Well thanks for doing that anyway, even whilst injured.” Paul says, voice soft.

“Weren’t for you.” He growls out, harsh words at odds with the way he sways into him.

“Course not.” Paul answers as though he doesn’t believe a word of it hand stilling.

Daryl doesn’t know what to believe himself anymore.

They stare at each other, seem to do it a lot. It’s actually somewhat of a relief when a walker staggers out of the forrest, distracting them as they break apart. There are screams, some panic, but the group rallies, comes together, beats it back. He and Paul simply watch, ready to jump in if needed. One of their makeshift school teachers, Daryl remembers from Paul’s tour, does the honours. She stabs it in the head with grim triumph. 

Looks like they’re becoming a group of fighters.

\--

Later in the day, the Saviours come. He hides in the storm cellar with Maggie. They talk, he cries, begs forgiveness. She holds him and is so kind as always, he doesn’t deserve it. It breaks his heart all over again. But slowly, he begins to piece his world back together a little bit more. Their conversation is a big part of that.

Paul is another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Not gonna lie, final chapters depend on this week's ep. Good luck y'all. Hold on to your Grembly Gunks.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Now** _

He holds him, feels closer to him right now than anyone before. It’s fucking terrifying and exhilarating and Paul’s blissfully unaware of it, babbling on about some ridiculous tale Daryl is only half paying attention to, words trailing soothingly over his skin. Something about being chased by a psychotic goose he’d found by a lake whilst on the road. It’s pure nonsense and most likely a complete work of fiction (unless there’s fresh waterfowl hanging in the kitchen of Barrington House, he’ll check later), but he plays along, sleepily humming agreement and sympathy where required, skimming a hand through his sweaty locks. Paul is practically lying on top of him and their legs are tangled together. Daryl runs the flat of his palm over the smoothness of his hip whilst Paul uses his fingertips to trace idle patterns just below his clavicle, occasionally arching into his touch. Daryl reckons they have about ten minutes before the welcome wagon rolls through the door. He hopes he’s wrong.

“He was the devil in white feathers, honestly. The dead don’t scare me, but that thing… I forgot what a badass I am. Just ran and didn’t look back.” He murmurs into Daryl’s sternum and he can feel the curve of his smile against his skin. “I mean, even the walkers didn’t want to ingest such evil.”

“That about right?” He drawls.

“ _Yeah,_ that’s about right.” Paul nods, beard scraping his skin, looking up at him, trying to remain deadly serious and Daryl can’t help but smirk at him.

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“ _What?_ ” Paul’s voice breaks in fake-outrage. “I hate geese.”

“Thought Jesus ain’t s’posed to hate nothing?”

Paul props himself up at that, hands either side of Daryl’s shoulders, hair swinging forward into his face. “Oh my God. Was that a _joke_?” His voice cracks in disbelief on the last word, eyes widening in supposed astonishment. He straddles Daryl, caging him in his arms which gets his pulse racing again. Lazy morning light illuminates the elegant curve of his face and his heart stutters pathetically. “Did _the_ Daryl Dixon, Mr Stoicism, he with the stick up his butt, really just crack a joke at me?”

He does his best to glare up at him, mouth quivering with a repressed smile. “S’been known to happen you brat.” 

Paul leans back to touch a hand to his heart as though deeply offended. “I’ll have you know, geese are mean, and vicious and the good Lord would understand.”

Daryl snorts, running his hands down the smooth expanse of Paul’s back because he can’t help it, not when there’s that much skin on show within reach. “Did you kill it at least?” He slides his hands around to Paul’s hips, framing them. So narrow, fitting perfectly in his large hands, he scratches lightly at the sensitive skin there.

Paul crinkles his nose, managing to look both shame-faced, flushed from Daryl’s touch and adorable at the same time. “Tara did.” He admits grimly, wriggling distractingly. “After she finished laughing at me.”

He lets out a bark of laughter at the image. “For real?”

“Well, didn’t have any brave boyfriends there to protect me did I?” His grin slips as the words leave his mouth. They don’t use that word. “Ugh, that was too corny even for me… I take it back? Please don’t kick me out of my own bed. I’m sorry. Please forgive me, I beg you!” His words become increasingly frantic with teasing until Daryl is snorting laughter again, can’t help it. As if he cares what the heck Paul calls him as long as he looks like _that_ whilst he does it; fond and bed headed, sated and happy.

He’s wrestling him then just for the hell of it, pinning his body just so he can feel it under his own. “Shut up ‘lil ninja.” 

Those eyes are dark, sparkling with a challenge. He mouths a reply, not making a sound but lips forming words that look suspiciously like _Make me…_

And so Daryl does. Gives him a long kiss, not a polite one, full of tongue until he feels the other man gasping, yet still smirking, warm against his lips. “Ah Daryl…” He sighs. “I did miss your face.” He admits softly once Daryl has let him surface.

Daryl breaks away then, stares down at his flushed partner thoughtfully. He takes a calming breath. Nothing gets his motor revving like the man beneath him and they just don’t have the time. 

“This weatherbeaten thing?” He murmurs half-serious, before nuzzling the side of Paul’s face in slight embarrassment. He knows Paul isn’t being literal about his face, that he actually missed him. Daryl missed him too, doesn’t know why it’s so hard to admit it out of the heat of the moment.

“Hmm…” Paul agrees languidly. He lightly wraps his arms around his shoulders, turns his face into Daryl’s neck. “Stop fishing for compliments. You know how I love that gorgeous weatherbeaten mug.” He places a light kiss on Daryl’s pulse point and he wonders whether he can feel his body responding, hear his heart-rate steadily increasing.

Daryl snorts in derision whilst also wondering whether that was another indirect truth. _I love you too._ Instead he finds himself suggesting into the warmth of him: “Should probably stick together on runs then.” He intends for it to be a joke, but finds he means every word.

“So you can protect me from rabid geese?” Paul answers, resurfacing, eyebrow raised.

_So I can protect you._

“Sure,” He shrugs, stretching his body out flat against Paul’s. It feels wonderful. “Just you an’ me.” _Always._

The look Paul gives him is one of his favourites. All soft, eyes sparkling with deep fondness and amusement, as if he really, really likes him. Never seen that look directed his way before Paul came along. “Fine by me. Hiking, camping and alfresco sex…” He winks, stretching gracefully, mirroring Daryl. “Means outdoors.”

“I know what it means smartass.” He growls, only half-serious. “Sounds great ’til a walker bites your ass off.”

“You’re so romantic.” Paul deadpans, suddenly attempting to disentangle himself from Daryl’s hold, slipping out of bed with a wistful smile. It’s a struggle, but he manages. Daryl can appreciate the view but sighs deeply at the loss of contact, flopping back onto the bed in frustration. Paul’s hair is all tangled and he stretches his lean body enticingly, not remotely bothered by his nakedness. Daryl can’t really blame him.

“Show off,” He groans longingly as his cock gives an optimistic stir.

“What?” Paul looks over his shoulder, face a picture of innocence. His skin gleams in the sun, the smooth plane of his back, ass shapely and inviting. “Busy day.” He says smiling fondly. “Got that meeting with Maggie. Must shower - you stay there!” He holds a hand up upon seeing Daryl attempt to scramble out of bed. “I need to get clean. You following can lead to nothing of that description.”

So he flops back on the bed in defeat, rubs his hands over his face as Paul pads out the room. He smirks to himself as he hears the water running. He’ll give him a full minute before joining him. He can keep his hands to himself. If anything, it’ll save propane. Paul should be thanking him.

He flashes back to that first time with the shower, blushes against the sheets. How he’d shyly followed Paul into the bathroom, heart racing with nerves and desperate longing, mouth dry and a sense of his whole world shifting. The way Paul had just let him watch, back to him, water cascading over smooth skin. The overwhelming desire to touch, even after originally refusing Paul’s offer to join him. The way he’d shivered when Daryl reached out so hesitantly to run his palm over the curve of his hip, having to, _needing to touch him_. How he’d pulled him in like it was just that easy, lips crashing together. 

He’s following him into the shower after only half a minute.

 

__________________

_**Then** _

They make the rest of the journey to Alexandria on foot, saying very little, silent and determined, moving briskly, urgently. They don’t need to say it. Something is very wrong. He can see it in the grim set of Maggie’s face, the tense shoulders of the fighters of Hilltop who stand with them. There are no explosions. 

There should have been explosions by now.

He thinks back to when he was last in Alexandria, of all the people he couldn’t stand to lose. The mess of emotions that made him leave sooner than expected, having to get Hilltop ready, to warn Maggie of their escalating plans. First there was the squirm of shame over what they did to the people of Oceanside. Forcibly taking their guns - he can call it a necessary evil all he likes, but at the end of the day, those people were now defenceless. There are many dangers in this broken world a knife won’t be able to stop, he knows it. What if a herd were to pass through their camp?

He has to stop thinking of the horror show that could await them when the time comes to return their weapons, he has nothing left to give them, concern used up on the people he is steadily growing to love. They’ll return to Oceanside if this all goes smoothly, which clearly it already hasn’t.

Then there was the initial shock of seeing Dwight, Daryl’s jailer again, the same scarred man, Negan’s monster, possibly tricking them. His words had reignited his sickening fear for Sasha, still in the Saviours’ clutches, his guilt, his fault. Should have stopped her. He could understand Daryl’s explosive anger all too well, the need to lash out. Now they were going to work with him, this Dwight. An ambush of the Saviours in Alexandria. Daring and potentially very deadly. 

Is it better a clean death than this soul destroying slow torture of being enslaved to Negan and his men? That wasn’t for him to decide for everyone. But for him, there was no choice. He’d wanted to fight back since the first day they’d crossed paths, when they killed that kid in front of him, just to prove a point, as though his life had meant nothing.

But now, there are too many unknown variables making him feel on edge. Dwight turning on his master being the least of their worries. There’s the untested loyalty of the junkyard people (can their services really be bought so easily?). Kingdom’s very uneasy willingness to join in the fight. Rosita the ticking time bomb. The loss of Sasha and Eugene - could they even get them out alive? Suddenly Paul had needed to return to Hilltop to talk to Maggie, to see how they could help. He respected her opinions and knew she’d sense it too, this sense of wrongness. They needed to protect Alexandria. If one falls, they all will.

And fine, yes, he can admit that he also wants to protect Daryl Dixon. Which is ridiculous, the man is a fighter, he’s deadly and resourceful and can take care of himself. But the thought of him being back in the Saviours’ clutches makes Paul want to break things (preferably the faces of Saviours but he’s not that fussy for a self-proclaimed pacifist. Pre-Apocalypse anyway).

He last saw Daryl at the gates before he left to make his way back to Hilltop. The man had prowled silently beside him, practically escorting him off the premises, with an impatience that would be insulting if he didn’t suspect that the man just wanted him out of harms way (impossible). His jaw was set and expression hard. He could feel the tension coming off him. Of course Daryl could never just admit what he was thinking.

“Daryl -” He’d began.

“Don’t.” He spat back out at him. _Fine._

Paul had simply waited, observing the square set of his shoulders, his heavy breathing, alertness in every line of his body. The man was on edge. He waited and eventually, was rewarded for his patience.

“Don’t like this.” Daryl had admitted quietly as they reached the gates, so low he could ignore him if he wished. He didn’t.

“But you trust him.” Paul replied to his back, just as quietly. Dwight. This all hinged on Dwight, on Daryl’s judgement. 

“Don’t know why.” He confessed, finally turning to face Paul, eyes screwed up in the afternoon sun. Hair a tangle and dark shirt stretched obscenely over his chest. He wanted to touch, to lie and tell him everything was going to be okay. But he owed him more than that.

“I guess you’d know him better than any of us.” Paul thought aloud, trying on some level to ease the worry in that face, the fine lines around those tortured eyes. When would enough be enough? When would this man get to live in peace, if such a thing were at all possible? He felt deeply sorry for him, for them all.

Dwight and Daryl. Maybe they had a connection because they came from the same dark places. Perhaps Dwight didn’t just get inside Daryl’s mind whilst torturing him, that their horribly unique connection went both ways. Either way, Daryl’s judgement was what he trusted, and trust wasn’t something he did so easily. He hoped that Daryl could understand that. Maybe not, but possibly one day he would. He’d always found it hard getting close to others. Maggie’s words had lingered in his mind long after she had shared them.

_“You should try it sometime. Even if it doesn’t last.”_

“You trust him, then I do too.” He said decisively, n a rush. It had cost him something to confess that. Dwight deserved to die. For Denise. For all that he’d done to Daryl, no question about it. Yet he would be willing to push all that aside, if Daryl thought it was the right thing to do. And if Daryl could do it…

Daryl had turned to him then, a look of mingled confusion and fear twisting his rugged features. Paul had never seen someone so lost whilst trying desperately hard to do the right thing. It tore at his heart. But he thought Daryl was making the right decision, an impossible one to make for his family, and a responsibility he didn’t envy. But it was right, he knew it. Just as he knew Daryl would never have shoved that blade through the man’s eye. It was close, but it wasn’t who he was. Not away from the heat of the moment in battle, or in fear of his life. 

“Why?” Daryl blurted out, looking mildly disgusted, as though disappointed in Paul’s life choices. It had made him smile.

But the answer was simple and surprising even to himself. He returned that scrutinising stare, softening towards the other man. “Because I trust you.” He couldn’t resist poking him in that broad chest, trying to draw a smile from him and very nearly succeeding, until his face went on lockdown once more, frown going up another level.

“You’re crazy,” He’d muttered, looking firmly at the ground. “Still don’t get why. Don’t even know me.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.” Paul had smiled gently, hopefully. “Maybe because you’re the kind of guy who’d take an injured thief home rather than leave him to get eaten by monsters? Even after he’d managed to righteously piss you off, I may add.” He concluded, smirking a little.

“Don’t look at me. Wanted to leave you up a tree…” Daryl had mumbled to the floor, making Paul repress a snort of laughter. He would never have thought he could laugh at a time like this.

He’d reached out then, couldn’t not, far too fond, too curious about the other man’s expression, the vague shyness, the suppressed amusement. There had been something almost teasing in his tone. Tentatively, he reached out, cupped the line of Daryl’s jaw in his hand, forcing him to look up as though it were the most natural action in the world. Daryl didn’t even protest, obeying in a docile manner. Or maybe he was just so lost, he’d take comfort from anyone. Paul had certainly hoped not.

His beard scruff scratched at his fingertips, he felt so warm. Daryl’s eyes were actually rather bemused, but he didn’t pull away.

“You need to get some rest before this all kicks off, then get prepared.” He advised, a lump forming in his throat. Daryl simply stared at him, expression grave. This wasn’t goodbye, so he refused to say it. They could take out a handful of Negan’s men, the Alexandrians and the junkyard people together, he was almost certain.

_Almost._

He’d talk to Maggie.

“Look after yourself.” It was suddenly vital that he make him understand that. “You hear me, Dixon?” 

To his surprise, the man actually shifted into his grip, just as he’d done all those days ago at the Hilltop. His eyes slipped shut for a moment, severing their intense connection. He leaned on Paul, which was good. He needed someone to lean for once, Paul had thought. His facial hair scratched once more as he nuzzled his hand lightly. Paul ran his thumb over his cheekbone, an action close to tenderness, whilst something inside of him was breaking.

“Yeah and you.” Daryl had murmured into his palm, breath warm and making Paul’s pulse pick up considerably. He cleared his throat, still avoiding Paul’s gaze though there was something so earnest in his words, the simplicity of them. “Gotta stay well out of this. If we fail -”

“Daryl don’t.” He didn’t want to hear any of it, feeling as if Daryl were pouring cold water over him. He knew what was coming, what he was going to ask of him. He knew he couldn’t do it.

But Daryl spoke over his protests. “- and this all goes to shit, you can deny ever knowing nothing. Hit back with Kingdom when you got a chance.”

_Leave you to die? Or get taken again?_

“I think we’re past that now.” He said, not knowing whether he meant the plausible deniability or his capabilities of leaving Daryl and Alexandria to fight alone. He hurt when Daryl hurt, he smiled when he smiled and suffered when he suffered. The same applied to the Hilltop and Alexandria, to Maggie and her family. Could they really just stand aside and watch this fight as bystanders?

Every part of him rallied against that idea, appalled. Still, it had been the most he’d ever heard Daryl speak, so open and honest. But he knew the decision would come down to Maggie, and that deep down, there was a possibility she may see that Daryl’s words made an awful kind of sense. To have a back up plan ready to set in motion. 

“Paul.” Daryl had growled, a warning that managed to plead with him at the same time. 

“I don’t know…” He began helplessly.

Daryl jerked his face out of Paul’s reach then, eyes blazing, almost angry. Rough hands gripped his shoulders, body so close to his, shaking with repressed emotion. All so he could make a point, trap his eyes with that intense gaze. Every word was fierce and Paul couldn’t look away. He actually thought the man was going to shake him at one point. “You gotta promise me, Paul. Keep Hilltop out of it for now. Protect Maggie.” He shuffled a little closer, eyes burning. “Keep yourself safe.”

Daryl’s grip was so firm it was almost bruising. He didn’t mind. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, noticing how Daryl’s eyes flickered down to track the movement.

 _In the movies, now we would kiss…_ He'd thought obscurely, looking up at the man.

But this wasn’t the movies, it was real life. And if his life had a genre, it would be a horror, where dead men rise and you don’t get the guy.

So he’d made a promise, even though he knew very well it couldn’t be his decision to make, as though it was just that easy to lie. It’s a promise he knew that he’d neglect to share with Maggie later.

“Yes, of course.”

Daryl breathed a hard sigh of relief then that ruffled his sweaty fringe. Had slowly leaned down into him, forehead to forehead for the barest moment. His hair tickled Paul’s face and he could smell the masculine scent of the other man, feel his warmth and it had driven him crazy as much as it soothed his fears, the building terror that this man wouldn't make it through another day. He shivered lightly into the other man, pulling in steadying breaths that Daryl had mirrored.

They remained there, head to head, strange yet comforting, A summary of their whole relationship so far. It had brought a sad smile to his face, had felt strangely intimate for an act so chaste. He’d leaned into the touch, gratefully seeking solace. Daryl nuzzling him, skin sliding against skin.

Then the man was abruptly pulling away, leaving him unsteady on his feet. Daryl had reached for the locks on the gates, slid it open and that had clearly been his invitation to leave. 

He didn’t look at Paul again.

-

And now here he was, breaking his promise, marching towards Alexandria as he’d always known he would, on some level. It had been so easy to lie to Daryl but he’ll worry about that bit later. For now, he’ll stay by Maggie’s side, protecting her and her unborn child. He could keep that much of his promise to Daryl anyway. There never had been a choice, not really. He just hoped they weren’t too late.

“You okay?” Maggie asks him, eyes kind but determined and he can’t help but answer honestly.

“Not really.” He admits, throwing her a sad smile that he sees mirrored in her own expression. How much more would she, would they, have to give? “Never wanted a war but what choice do we have?” They navigate the trunk of a fallen tree, detouring round it, barely breaking stride as they are almost there now, feeling tense and alert. He worries for the men and women with him, the ones he trained. They’re here voluntarily but that hardly makes it better. They are leading them into war. How did this become his life? Still, he’d follow Maggie anywhere, even onto a battlefield it would seem. “There should have been explosions…” He adds, mostly to himself.

“They’re going to be okay, Jesus.” Maggie says in her firm drawl, face somehow determined and sympathetic. 

“And how do you know that?” He asks, pausing to offer a hand to his friend as she steps over fallen branches. He steadies her and she smiles gratefully.

“Because we’ll make sure that they are.” It is the commanding tone of a leader and when she speaks like that, he can’t help but believe her. He wants to believe her so badly. He squeezes her hand and she squeezes back before letting go, small smile on her face. “We’ll make sure of that this time round. We know who they are, what they do.”

And just like that, he knows she’s thinking of Glenn. Good Glenn, kind Glenn, who’d go out of his way to save a stranger. No wonder she had loved him so. 

But now, as they move closer to Alexandria though the woods, _his_ woods, there are popping sounds in the distance, the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Sparse and deeply troubling. His whole world drains of colour and he is running and isn’t the only one because there were no explosions and the gunshots are dying down already, too soon, like the fight’s over and they’re in there, he’s in there, _Daryl is in there…_

 

_________

 

It’s a fucking bloodbath and it isn’t over yet. 

His mind can’t process what he’s seeing. This doesn’t happen for them. The calvary, coming in, right at the last moment, when all had seemed to be lost, when his people were being hogtied and lined up for death. This is so different to the last time Negan had them on their knees, no hope, only death. But this time… The armoured forces of Kingdom, marching through their streets, Carol looking lethal and beautiful, and Ezekiel like something damn-near _biblical_ , bellowing out commands, coaxing them to victory. Then there’s a _goddamn tiger_ , his friend, mauling all the right people and he’ll be damned if he can explain it but it’s so miraculous he actually wants to laugh or cry. Instead he’s shooting at anyone who is a Saviour or belongs in a fucking junkyard, the treacherous rats that they are. 

He’s constantly moving, dodging enemy fire and trying to put enough space between him and the tiger, just in case she forgets they’re BFFs in the heat of the moment. One of the saviours, he remembers from the circle that had gleefully beat the crap out of him on Negan’s command, makes the mistake of stumbling into his path. He pulls the trigger without hesitation and the man loses half his head just like that and Daryl is gone before his body hits the floor. Like it is just that easy and it is in the moment. It always is, and he doesn’t look at that too closely or he’ll be afraid of what he has become.

He’s ducking behind vehicles, trying to keep moving, to stay alive. He fires shots at enemies, hitting a mark almost every time. Everything is a haze of chaos, violence and bloodshed but not _his_. Not Negan’s and it’s not good enough. Not enough to end this. He’s going to get away… 

Then there seems to be more reinforcements. Faces that are strangely familiar, not unfriendly - good people - and he knows them, he just knows. They are from the Hilltop.

And Maggie is here, guns blazing looking righteous and furious and damn near the best thing he’s ever seen in his sorry life even though he’s so pissed at her for being here and in the family way but they’re saving their asses and -

There’s Paul fucking Rovia.

He dives behind a car to avoid a sudden spray of bullets but he’d know that face anywhere, staying close to Maggie, guarding her, eyes serious behind the barrel of a gun, deadly and furious and _he shouldn’t be here he promised._

_Hippy prick._

He tries to track him but the man has moved on with Maggie, she’s calling out orders like the true leader she has become as the people of Hilltop drive their enemies out, looking far deadlier than they ever did stumbling around in those woods. They are lethal and so strong together. Of course they are, now under Maggie’s control, that other guy would have left them here to rot. She inspires people to be better. And Sasha, _oh Sasha_ … He can’t take it in right now, can’t start processing the losses when there is still so much left to lose.

Everything else is a blur, as it always is in battle. There’s a desperate scramble to stop Negan leaving. He barely remembers climbing atop a truck, intending to finish him with a rage that burns so bright, it erases everything else he is momentarily. Then there’s smoke, so much of it that he’s coughing, it’s covering the hasty retreat of enemy forces and he can’t take the shot. They’re leaving, they’re leaving Alexandria. It would seem his side has won this one. A stray bullet grazes his bicep as if to chide him for growing complacent, but at least it’s the same one Dwight shot in the shoulder before. He curses and drops down to the ground anyway, realising he was only a few inches away from death. The feeling gets old. Dwight. He cannot possibly believe that he knew about this, man looked as surprised as he felt when the junkyard people had pulled their weapons on them…

Then there’s the bone deep shock and adrenaline as the smoke clears and the battle is clearly over for now. There’s blood on his face that isn’t his and he’s searching for Rick, for his brother, desperately calling out for him, staggering until he sees the man enter the watch tower with his son in pursuit and can finally breathe again. His shot shoulder hurts like a mother, an old injury, and he’s shaking hard. Shock sets in and he blunders through moments that will only gain clarity later. He helps Tara carry an injured Rosita into the makeshift infirmary of Denise’s old house. He passes a bloodied and twitchy Morgan, who looks none too stable. He sees Father Gabriel digging fresh graves. He stabs corpses through their heads so they don’t rise up again, action now almost automatic. He rigidly accepts hugs and backslaps, taking only a few faces in, the ones that he knows and cares about: Tara, Aaron, Eric, Maggie the leader, still handing out orders. He finds Rick again, squeezes his shoulder before taking over his task, helping to carry Michonne into the infirmary. She’s beaten and bloody but very much alive, even slurring something that sounds like _“You look terrible…”_ at him before blacking out. Rick is bleeding bad but he stays by her side with such a look of tenderness that Daryl leaves them to it, nodding at Carl as he goes, not wanting to intrude.

He passes Carol, her expression haunted now that the fight is over. They briefly embrace and he knows by her firm grip she is both pissed and relieved he is okay, but it doesn’t matter, it could never matter. He’ll always love her and they’ll always have each other’s backs.

“Liar.” She murmurs into his ear, somehow managing to be fond, furious, forgiving, teasing, tired and terrifying with just one word.

“I know.” He answers, hoping she can hear the apology he’ll never make, because he’s not. Not for trying to protect her from exactly this. More pain, more blood on her hands. “Thank you.”

Eventually, she leaves to find Ezekiel and he’s gripped by the certainty she won’t be staying in Alexandria anymore. The thought stings less than he’d expected.

He sees couples embrace, old friends reunite. Communities grieving over the fallen and feels strangely detached from it all. He wanders, on some level seeking out something for himself, body restless and mind agitated, needing to know…

Then there’s him. Only ever him lately.

He has a smudge of dirt across his face. He’s sweating and his hair is tangled but somehow still perfect. He pats a blond woman on the back reassuringly as he passes her by, expression kind and gentle (Daryl thinks it could be Katie). He doesn't seem to be injured, standing on his own two feet, eyes widening upon seeing Daryl not six feet away. He broke his promise, came to fight and he’s not hurt, he’s not dead, this isn’t the end.

“Fucking liar.” Daryl spits out, suddenly fuming.

Then somehow he’s made up the distance between them in a couple of strides and Paul looks defensive, almost as though he thinks he’s going to hit him. But his hands fall when Daryl crushes the man into an embrace, forcing all the air out of him. They both gasp as he stoops down so he can shove his face in the crook of his neck, taking in the scent of him, sweat and soap and pine from the woods.

Paul is gripping him just as tight and he’s steering them between the houses so they can be alone just for this moment, forcing Paul backwards clumsily, practically lifting him off his feet. Adrenaline is turning into another kind of emotion, morphing into a different physical need and he’s slamming him back against the wall, still locked in an embrace.

“You’re alive so I’m not sorry,” Paul declares almost angrily into his shoulder, hands roaming over his back, practically clawing at his hips, his spine, pulling him closer, making sure his words are true, that he’s alive - Daryl knows, because he’s doing the same thing to him. 

“You will be,” He snarls but it comes out far softer than intended and he doesn’t even know what he means by it, only that he’s shaking from the enormity of this moment and he’s hot and his stomach is twisting not unpleasantly. Then he’s holding the smaller man in his arms, pulling back to look down at him, brushing the dirt away with his thumb, taking in his shocked beautiful eyes, lush red mouth panting with adrenaline and anger. He can’t find the words. And they’re so near and alive and _here_ that he threads his hands roughly through his hair and uses it to pull him close, pressing their mouths together. _Hard._

 

___________________

Paul is responding, explosive in Daryl’s arms because how can he not? He closes his eyes, and simply feels because it’s been so long and this is so _damn good._

There is a part of his mind that isn’t keeping up, that can’t quite believe this is happening, but his body knows what to do, has wanted to do for so long. His arms wrap around the man, pulling him close, one around his waist so they can stand flush against each other, Daryl pressing him back into the wall of the house. The other, gripping his shoulder, sliding up his neck, the hinge of his jaw, coaxing him to the right angle, to open up, because it’s clear Daryl is running on adrenaline and instinct rather than experience. 

Daryl sometimes misses, hitting the corner of his mouth in a way that is endearing and clumsy in his desperation and it turns him on even more, how much Daryl seems to want him. The kiss is messy, hot and desperate and it’s making his legs weak so he’s glad the man is holding him with _those_ arms. He loops his arms over his broad shoulders, digging his fingers into muscles he’s stared at so often, he’s been dreaming about them. He groans as Daryl’s mouth moves against his, opening, searching curiously, kissing like he truly means it, as Paul had suspected he would. He swipes his tongue over Daryl’s lower lip and feels a growl reverberate through his whole body which has him perspiring. Daryl is still clutching at his hair, on the right edge of pain, other arm slung around his hips, pulling him closer, rhythmically rubbing and Paul’s shamelessly opening his legs, trying to get a thigh between them or something because he _needs_ to press against him, like he’s a teenager all over again, blood rushing south, light headed with desire and cheeks aflame. 

Daryl sucks at his lower lip a little, testing, and it’s his turn to groan. His runs his hands restlessly over every available part of the other man, going for a slow and deep kiss, exploring and Daryl mirrors him beautifully, copying and learning - learning fast. He peppers lighter kisses against his lips, slow and languid, feeling it right down in his bones and the other man moves against him, hands gentling in his hair, against his face. 

The pace becomes a little more sedate, they are panting and his hands slip in sweat and he can smell the masculine scent of him, runs his hands through his locks, over and over, down his broad chest, over his gorgeous arms, squeezing, _finally…_

“Ah…”

And that’s a grunt. Not a good one, a pained one and he’s pulling back with some difficulty and looking at the other man, hair even more ragged and lips much redder and he’s actually blushing before he hides his face in Paul’s neck, bent over awkwardly, panting against his skin.

“Did I hurt you?” Pauls asks, voice gruffer than usual, cracking with concern. He stokes his hair when Daryl doesn’t answer and that’s his beard scratching against his throat, lips following, breath hot and making his head swim. He’s kissing his neck, wet and messy and suddenly the only thing in the world he wants to do is lean back and give him full access but this is important and he won’t be distracted.

“Daryl,” He groans as a hint of teeth scrapes along a tendon. “Hey!” He pushes him back gently, mentally retracing his earlier actions. He had been running his hands over his biceps… He looks carefully and sees a dark stain spreading through a tear in his shirt sleeve - a deep scratch. “I hurt you!” He croaks in horror.

“Damn bullet hurt me.” Daryl corrects, voice low and ragged and he just wants to pull him back and make out for about twelve hours and he’s already smiling at the thought, cupping his cheek, trying to get him to meet his eyes. His skin is so hot to the touch and he’s sweating and so gorgeous he can barely think straight.

_So to speak._

“We need to get that checked out.”

Slowly, those dark blue eyes find his. There’s unmistakeable hurt in them. “I get it.” He murmurs, pulling away from Paul’s arms, attempting to stagger out of the alley.

“Daryl…” He says softly, grabbing his wrist so he can stop him leaving. He slides his hand down into his and the other man lets him, linking their fingers together, though he looks suspicious, as if suspecting Paul is going to unleash one of his ninja moves or something. As if someone couldn’t possibly want to just hold his hand. “Didn’t say I don’t want this. Do I look like I don’t want this?” He says it as seductively as possible, eyes large and appealing, knowing his lips are swollen, body is flushed and hair is a mess.

The other man turns to look at him through a sheet of dirty hair, expression hard to read. He takes him in and seems to be pleased with what he sees, licking his lips thoughtfully before sighing raggedly. “Timing’s off. I know.” 

And at his words, Paul realises how true it really is, heart sinking. There are things he has to do, people to mourn. This isn’t the end of the war, not by a long shot. The saviours could regroup and attack tomorrow if they wished. Their first time together shouldn’t be whilst they both smell and taste like a battlefield, but he can’t regret kissing him. An expression of love, desperate relief and comfort. They are alive.

He can’t stay with him right now though. There’s things he must do. He has Sasha to think of. His heart twists with guilt and sorrow and a fierce kind of pride in her. Suddenly he knows what he must do next, what he and Maggie have to do, and it’s killing him to even think of it but he owes her that much. Should have been his first action after the smoke had cleared, as soon as Aaron had told him of her fate.

“I’ll see you later?” Paul asks, hating how uncertain his voice sounds. He gives Daryl’s hand a squeeze, hoping he’d understand.

The other man squeezes back, turning to him fully. His eyes narrow as he gives him one of his laser-stares. “You alright?” 

“Just remembering something I have to do.” He admits sadly. “But it’s okay. Remember what I said before about hoping someone I loved would finish me off?” Daryl nods in response, frowning at the thought. “Least I can do it for her. For Sasha.”

They hold hands as they leave the space between the houses, separating only once they go their separate ways, Daryl to the infirmary, Paul to find Maggie.

But before they do, Daryl sways into him, bumping shoulder against shoulder. “Find me? After.” He clarifies, answering Paul’s question from before. He can only nod in response, wishing he could fast forward to that moment already, because this was going to be deeply painful.

“Count on it.”

__________

 

They regroup. They take out the inevitable walkers. They bury their dead. They try and work out a reasonable plan.

He hovers whilst Rick, Maggie and Ezekiel discuss the fate of their communities over the makeshift bandstand, a new place to rally the people in the daylight where they belong, church no longer big enough nor fitting. It has been a day of speeches and memorialising. Daryl feels exhausted.

“Together we are strong. I’m afraid that if we stand alone the outcome will not be so pleasing.” Ezekiel declares in his rich baritone. Daryl sees why Carol likes him, even if the man’s a complete Fruitloop, or at least is playing the part of one. The tiger, Shiva, lies docile at his feet as though she hadn’t been chewing a man’s face off a few hours ago. Daryl watches her lying there, eyes closed in the sunlight, long tail swishing placidly and decides to go ahead and like her anyway.

“What are you suggesting?” Rick drawls. “If we form one community won’t that make taking us out all the more easier?”

Daryl hadn’t thought of it like that before. He knows the numbers at Negan’s disposal. The thought makes his head hurt. Why couldn’t he have just left them alone? Built up his own community just like everyone else? They’re all just trying to survive, humans and monsters, which one is which, he wonders sometimes. They should have been on the same side.

“We have to get back to Hilltop.” Maggie adds. “We’ve got the non-fighters waiting for us. They’re vulnerable on their own.”

“As are those who chose to remain at the Kingdom.” Ezekiel concurs.

Rick turns to him then, eyes very blue and earnest. It catches him off guard. “What do you think Daryl?”

All three of them turn to him in the sunshine expectantly, looking like something out of a damn historical painting, the three leaders of men. He likes that Rick values his opinion but the man sure knows how to put him on the spot.

There is no clear answer but he tries to muddle his way through, as he sees it. “If we split up, they’ll pick us off one by one - they got the numbers to do it. And that ain’t counting those junkyard assholes.” He shrugs. “But Alexandria, Hilltop, the Kingdom are our homes. We could divide the best fighters so each place is protected?” He turns to Ezekiel. “You keep the tiger.” He adds shyly, causing the king to let out a low chuckle.

A slow smile spreads across Rick’s face and he knows the man is approving his words even if he’s provided no clear answer.

“If we abandon our homes, our crops, they’ll burn us out.” Maggie says sadly. “Our homes are our future.”

“ _People_ are our future.” Ezekiel adds solemnly and the conversation goes round and round again.

“Somethin’ to think about anyway.” Daryl says with a casualness he doesn’t feel, trying to dismiss himself. He doesn’t need to hear them discuss it further, to dissect his idea in front of him, so slips away. Maggie gives him a reassuring pat on his uninjured arm as he leaves, heading towards his old house. Might as well enjoy the quiet while has it. He suspects things are going to get awful crowded round here real soon, especially if they come under siege. 

And since Maggie’s back from her task in the woods, someone else might come looking for him too.

He hasn’t let himself think about it too much. Best not to get his hopes up. Not that he has hopes or whatever. Good things like this just don’t tend to happen to him often. Or ever. Or if it does, he loses it, screws it up somehow. Best just to be guided by instinct. For it had lead him into Paul’s arms, a moment he could not bring himself to regret even if he’s starting to feel he’d embarrassed himself in some way, so desperate for the other man.

He kissed him, just allowing himself to feel, to have this. Paul had kissed back, no question about it so that had to count for something, didn’t it? His face heats up at the thought and he feels ridiculously juvenile, delighted, inexperienced and at the same time, absurdly pleased with the result. Paul’s eyes, dark and wanting, his breath coming thick and fast. The way he’d clung to him with mute desperation.

It’s not as though he hasn’t fooled around before. With the odd girl after some crude encouragement from Merle. Even the odd guy when he thought he could get away with it. It had done very little for him, truth be told. It was messy and empty and left him wondering what all the fuss was about.

When the world went to shit he didn’t miss it, had no time for it. And then suddenly, there was him, bounding into his life, taking over, all warmth and secret smiles, annoying the hell out of him on a daily basis (seemingly enjoying it - winding him up about explicitly shaped clouds and the perks of a vegan diet to name few). Suddenly the idea of the other stuff didn’t seem so empty anymore, not if any part of it included him. Because he meant something. He made him laugh (on the inside mostly but that was only his pride not letting Paul win. He knows how much the man wants to see him crack up). He made him feel and want. He’d been surrounded by people who loved him yet somehow still felt very much alone. Until there was him. Paul saw him, wanted to know him for some unfathomable reason. He made him feel better and even decided he was worth saving. He had tried for him. Not many people had done that before.

Paul had wanted him. And he wanted Paul. Somehow, Paul was his in that way that had been missing from his life for so long but now seemed to fit. If he didn’t mess this up. It was funny how the big revelations came in random moments. Yet it didn’t even feel that big, it simply was. Just another truth that had come to be.

As he climbs the steps of his porch, he remembers Paul’s hands in his hair, his lips moving hungrily against his own, and the way he sounded…The scent of him, surrounding him. Definitely not the only one left wanting.

As he opens his front door he realises how absurd it is to be starting something at a time like this, on the verge of war, but when was the timing ever going to be right at the end of the world? And, he thinks, this had begun long before they ever kissed. It started right around the time he’d chased a little idiot around a field all over a truck full of food…

He walks into his living room.

“What are you smiling about?”

Of course he’s already here. Of course.

“Ain’t smiling.” Daryl growls, trying to stuff said incriminating smile back down, but the sight of Paul on his sofa, legs curled up under him, some book in lap, has his heart doing stupid things. 

“Looks good on you,” Paul insists softly and he doesn’t blush at that.

Daryl glares, half-serious. “This is my house.”

“Exactly.” He answers, placing the book on his coffee table before very generously patting the seat beside him, graciously inviting him to sit on his own damn sofa. The glint in his eyes says he knows it all too well. Daryl shuffles his feet, uncertain. The less distance there is between them, the harder he’ll find it not to jump the man’s bones like a demented caveman. Daryl really looks at the man, how he’s made himself at home like a presumptuous house cat, he’s glad he feels so comfortable around him. He’s taken off his coat, shed a couple of layers so only his dark shirt, cargo pants and boots remain. He’s rolled his sleeves up, hair lying neatly against his shoulders and Daryl wonders how the heck he does that. He looks so handsome and composed, it leaves Daryl wanting once more. 

“What you reading?” He asks gruffly instead.

“ _War and Peace,_ ” Paul shrugs, something mischievous in the gesture. “Seemed apt.”

As he slowly maneuverers himself onto the sofa leaving a space between them, he realises just how weary Paul looks under his teasing, dark rings forming under his eyes, smile soft and sad. But he _is_ smiling, actually looks pleased to see Daryl and that’s something of a relief.

The other man just examines him with those beautiful eyes - first thing he’d noticed about him, that day they met. He’s painfully aware of how grimy he is, though Paul is partly responsible for the state of his hair. He licks his lips nervously and Paul tracks the motion idly.

“How’d it go?” He finds himself asking, not allowing his feelings to sidetrack him from Paul’s welfare. He’s weary yes, but there’s something so sad in his expressive eyes. He’s never seen a pair like them, that can emote so much without saying a word. It used to make him feel uncomfortable and yes, concerned for the other man. How could he ever be safe, with eyes like that laying his heart wide open for anyone to read and take advantage of? And didn’t they do just that? Getting him to run errands and do whatever they wanted? So vulnerable it made his chest tight. It made him worry, to want to do _something_ to protect him even though he obviously could look after himself. Hence the promise. The broken promise. But he’ll let it go for now, seeing the pain in his expression. He almost regrets his question.

Sasha. He remembers her embrace when he’d returned to Hilltop, her steeliness on top of that big old heart. It’s painful to think that she is gone for good.

“Found her. Laid her to rest.” Paul says simply, looking at the floor, playfulness stripped away. “It was…painful.”

Daryl fidgets, suddenly awkward, not knowing what to say. He can’t possibly begin to make it right. He wants to hold him but knows he’s been forward enough today. His mama always told him to not be forward when he was little. Though she was talking about ladies. And she was off her head most of the time so what did she even know? 

“You should stay here.” He blurts out instead, cursing internally. “Don’t have any food. The Saviours took all the mattresses. But there’s a shower.” He knows how Paul likes to be clean, how he smells so good all the damn time. It’s not much, but it’s all he can offer. His thumb finds his way into his mouth and he chews the nail anxiously.

When he next risks a glance, the man is smiling at him, really smiling this time, eyes fond as if Daryl is some kind of adorable idiot. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased or offended.

“I’d love to, really I would. But we’re heading back to Hilltop before it gets dark.” He admits, looking wistful.

“Right now?” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice, fails bitterly. “Ain’t that kind of dangerous?”

“Saviours know whose side we’re on now. We can’t just leave the rest of Hilltop undefended.” He explains ruefully. “Trust me, right now I’d rather be here. With you…” He admits almost shyly and it’s a nice moment until Paul being Paul has to spoil it by adding: “…showering.”

Daryl feels his jaw drop open, “Ain’t what I meant by that at _all_ -”

“Relax, I’m kidding. Kind of.” He chuckles. “You’re really cute when you get all flustered.”

“Don’t start that again.” Daryl warns, trying not to show his amusement or how hard his heart is beating. 

Paul shrugs airily. “You kissed _me_.”

And now there’s that tension in the air, that surreal layer of want that he knows he isn’t alone in feeling, can’t be. There’s a large gap between them and Daryl suddenly feels ungainly and clumsy. Why is this so bloody difficult?

“So what if I did?” He demands defiantly, pretending not to flush as Paul smiles wider. The air is thick with something, Daryl finds he has to fill the silence. “And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.” Pauls nods agreeably, eyes hypnotic. “I wanted to see you, had to see you before…” Paul trails off, and those eyes are pulling him in and his expression is strangely shy, cheeks tinged pink and he’s never seen that look on the cocksure man before.

He stares at the other man, noting how he’s concealing his tiredness under a look of affection. He can read him so well. “C’mere,” He orders, holding his arms open and trying not to think too much, simply trusting his instincts to guide him. Sometimes it’s all you got in this world.

Paul raises his eyebrows but otherwise keeps his mouth blessedly shut for which Daryl is grateful. The other man scoots over gradually as though suspecting some kind of trick. He stops a few inches away from him, so they are practically nose to nose, side by side, bodies angled towards each other.

“Hi.” Says Paul, one word loaded with expectations. Daryl gathers his courage, puts his arm around him, pulls him close. He dips his head so he can hide in his hair once more. It smells amazing which denies all logic. The man immediately goes pliant against him, leans into him, letting out a long sigh of relief, hand flat on his chest. They’re not cuddling. Daryl Dixon doesn’t cuddle. This is comfort, this is support.

“I’m sorry about Sasha,” He whispers into Paul’s hair and the man leans into him further, hand on his pectoral, head on his chest. It feels really nice though there’s no chance he can’t hear his heart racing now.

“Me too,” Paul says quietly and they stay like that for a long time or no time at all. Doesn’t matter. Daryl can’t tell. At some point Daryl’s hand finds it’s way into Paul’s hair and he’s clumsily stroking as though he’s a cat or something. Paul doesn’t seem to mind, merely leans into his touch, humming thoughtfully under his breath. It’s strangely soothing and unsettling.

“Is this a move, Daryl Dixon?” He murmurs sleepily and Daryl rolls his eyes even if the other man can’t see him. He’ll know. Just as Daryl knows the man is smiling, winding him up gleefully.

“Don’t need no moves,” He answers scornfully, meaning that he doesn’t like to play games but realising it sounds awfully cocky.

When the other man pulls back a little to peer up at him, hands still on his chest, his expression is serious, heated with a glint in his eyes. “No. You don’t, do you?”

He doesn’t know who instigates the kiss, only that Paul’s hand is warm against his cheek and he’s kissing him so slowly Daryl forgets how to breathe. He shivers with pleasure, absurdly pleased at the pace, heat coiling low in his belly as Paul’s other hand slides down to rest there, trailing patterns over the material of his shirt. He thinks he remembers to kiss back, hand on the back of Paul’s neck in case he tries to go anywhere too soon. It’s languid and calming yet still manages to make his blood boil. Paul is very sure, movements slow and tender, pouring feeling into every motion and this is right. This is probably how they should always be.

He’s deepening the kiss, drunk on it. Tongue sliding over Paul’s and it’s a new type of pleasure and holding him feels so normal it makes perfect sense and no sense at all. Paul’s hand is under his shirt now and he chases the touch, nails lightly scratching at a sensitive area above his hips that makes his toes curl. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing, just going with what feels good until he’s pushing him back, pressing him into the cushions so they can stretch out, his body on top of the smaller man’s in a way that has his blood racing. He takes in the sight of him, hair fanned out, eyes half-lidded under the curve of long lashes, lips damp and breath heavy. He looks delectable. He dives in for another kiss…

Paul’s hands slide down to his lower back, finding their way to bare skin and he doesn’t flinch, even when they come in contact with scar tissue, he merely kisses him more intensely, gratefully until the man is moaning against his lips. And when Paul sinuously rolls his hips up into his own, his body knows what to do. Paul’s thigh is between is legs and he’s gasping out at the stark pleasure, hips pressing the other man back down until they are working up a subtle rhythm that has them both sweating, fitting together so well…

Then he’s stilling, breaking away because it’s too much and if Paul has to leave he can’t let it be like this. Not a quick fumble on the couch no matter how hard he is, and how badly he wants it… The ashes of the day surround them. He wants this to be something beautiful in this shitty world.

They are practically nose to nose, sharing breath, chests pressed together enticingly. Paul’s eyes are so blue, so wide and understanding. “Hi?” He repeats, smiling even as he catches his breath. He is so beautiful like this, Daryl decides.

“Too much too soon?” He adds, voice rumbling against his chest, through his whole body and he’s shivering at the sensation, wanting him so badly he has to close his eyes… Paul runs gentle hands though his hair, shaking slightly with apparent restraint. He tucks his hair behind his ear, and he’s trapped in his eyes and actually happy about it, it’s stupid and he’s falling.

He nods, shakes his head, shrugs, not really knowing. His hair swings forward again to cover his eyes, Paul’s efforts wasted. “Too much. Not enough.” He sighs and Paul seems to know what he means. They struggle up into sitting positions, next to each other, arm against arm sharing warmth. They both lean back into the coach, trying to calm down.

“I get it. You don’t want to rush.” It really doesn’t help that Paul’s voice is low and gorgeous.

“Oh I wanna rush, believe me. I wanna kiss you and pin you down and…” He shuts down that trail of thought, seeing how Paul’s eyes darken, how his whole body tenses, the way he licks his lips and leans towards him fractionally. The cat image comes to mind once more, but more along the lines of Shiva, hunting her prey. He doesn’t mean to tease, just wants to get his words out right. “I don’t want to start somethin’ we can’t finish.”

Paul’s eyes widen slightly at that, a hint of playful confusion in their clear depths. “Oh we could finish. I could get you to finish, believe me. Do you want me to…?” He makes an obscene gesture with his hand that would normally make Daryl spontaneously combust if not for the fiendish way he waggles his eyebrows, clearly joking. He snorts nervous laugher, quickly cutting it off lest the man get too big-headed. His expression is one of sheer joy and triumph. “You laughed!”

“Didn’t. And that’s not what I meant you horndog.” He scolds, heart racing and resolve weakening considerably. Paul grins at him fondly, before sobering up.

“Then what did you mean, Daryl?” He asks it softly, as if he genuinely wants to understand and he can’t take the kindness mixed with heat in those eyes, not when he’s saying his name. It’s too much and he’s not strong enough to resist so he shuts his eyes for a moment.

“Just mean, when we go there… You and me. I’m - I’m gonna want it all…” He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. Never was good with sharing feelings. “Aw shit I can’t do this.”

“Tell me,” His voice is still gentle, hand on his shoulder and he never could resist those eyes.

So he blurts it out. “When we finally go there, I’m gonna want all of you, Paul fucking Rovia. Not some quick fumble on a couch. I’m not about that.”

There’s a silence, broken only by the deep exhale of Paul’s breathing. When he dares to look at the other man, he can see that Paul looks rather pink, he’s fighting down a smile, and he looks incredibly moved and right then Daryl knows they’re going to be okay.

Paul leans forward, cupping his rough cheek, before swooping in and laying a long kiss against his lips that steals his breath away. He breaks away, resting their foreheads together. “All of me…” He repeats wistfully. “You should be careful what you wish for, Daryl Dixon.”

 _You,_ Daryl thinks. _I wish for you, only you…_

Instead he smiles, the first full genuine smile he has unguardedly let bloom in the other man’s presence. “I remember tryna get rid of you the first time.” He says, causing Paul to chuckle.

They sit together for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness, not even needing to fill the silence, a new kind of intimacy.

“I have to go soon.” Paul eventually admits, eyes shut. He does sound reluctant which is a good sign.

“M’kay.” Daryl answers, leaning closer so he can breathe him in, chest aching.

“How is it possible you’ve gotten more monosyllabic?” Paul asks wryly, eyes opening and filled with amusement.

Daryl simply shrugs and Paul laughs a little in response.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to leave,” He groans and his obvious disappointment is almost enough to take the sting out of his words.

“Then don’t.” Daryl growls, hand reaching for his arm, squeezing imploringly. He has a bad feeling about this. To not have him within touching distance, to not be able to see and feel that he is okay…

What if the Saviours catch him?

“Daryl, I’m coming back.” He murmurs, rubbing his face against him, beard and all. 

“You’ll keep yer promise this time?” Daryl asks flatly, no angry edge of accusation, just trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice.

He sighs. “You know, I _am_ sorry about that.” Paul says, eyes imploring but that won’t work on him.

“No yer not.” He counters flatly, eyes narrowing.

“No I’m not,” Paul agrees cheerfully. “We were never going to let Alexandria fall. Couldn’t let anything bad happen to you now, could I? Though I don't like lying, even when it’s unintentional.” He admits with a shrug, but his words before are all Daryl can focus on.

_Couldn't let anything happen to you…_

They are both so royally screwed.

He pulls on his beanie and coat as Daryl he escorts him to the door. Paul startles him by throwing his arms around him one last time, having to lean up on his tiptoes to do so which isn’t adorable at all. He just goes with it. Paul’s arms wind round his shoulders and he burrows into him. So maybe Daryl Dixon does cuddle. Just a bit. His arms encircle that narrow waist and he places a covert kiss to the top of Paul’s head before he can stop himself.

“I’ll remember what you said here tonight.” Paul warns into the warmth of Daryl's throat.

“You do that.” Daryl scoffs with a casualness he doesn’t feel, sliding his hand down the curve of his spine, causing Paul to shiver into his touch, bending into him. He doesn’t want to let go, to let him go, he realises. But that was crazy. Paul ‘Jesus’ Rovia was doing fine without him long before they ever met, scouting for Hilltop and conning innocent bystanders out of their findings. He’ll be fine.

Paul breaks away to look up at him, eyes warm and entirely too difficult to look away from. “Just so you know, I feel the same.”

“What’s that?” Daryl slurs, feeling stupid.

His face is serious, expression earnest and it makes Daryl pay full attention. “That I want all of you too.”

And with that, he’s using his ninja-like tendencies once more, slipping out of Daryl’s grasp with a terrible ease and exiting the house. He’s so quick, blending into the darkening streets, leaving Daryl with a horrible panicked feeling that he should have tried harder, should have said anything to get him to stay, selfish though it may have been.

He was going to miss that little weirdo, more than he could ever admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry about the wait. Life stuff. Clues for you all regarding the next chapter: a reunion of sorts, a big scare (you're gonna hate me) and a certain scene briefly mentioned in this chapter’s ‘Now…’**
> 
>  
> 
> **Hope you all enjoyed.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note, not as edited as it could be but I feel guilty for making you wait so long. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading and for all you comments and kudos. You really made my day and I couldn't have written this without your encouragement and support. Thank you. xx**

_The walker had come out of nowhere._

_The walker had come out of nowhere and his world was over…_

______________________

 

It’s been nearly a month with no contact from Hilltop.

Nearly an _entire month_ with no news.

Riders from Kingdom had been intercepted, barely escaping with their lives, the last time they’d tried to check in with them.They’d reported back to Alexandria that a small but brutally efficient group of Saviours had been keeping Hilltop cut off from the other communities, possibly seeing them as the weaker link with the most valuable produce. They were now under siege.

The worst part of it for Daryl was, he knew there was no group of Negan’s that could keep Paul ‘Jesus’ Rovia trapped if he wanted to be somewhere else. 

So why wasn’t he here? 

At the end of the first week he was beginning to feel concerned, but willing to concede that enough time had not passed for the situation to become truly alarming. They hadn’t agreed on a specific timeframe after all. The second week, the nightmares began. All those thoughts he managed to push down during the day were suddenly given free reign to torture him at night; Hilltop burning. A bat wrapped in barbed wire swinging through the air. Paul and Maggie, reanimated bodies moving, nothing left inside. It had left him feeling strained and anxious when awake. By the third week, the fear started to leak into daytime hours, making him unable to focus on complicated tasks for long, snapping at anyone with little provocation. And by the forth week, he became very angry and channeled that frustration into determination. 

No one or nothing was going to stop him from getting to Hilltop. Not Rick’s pleas, or the appeals of the Kingdom riders. Their information had made him even more resolved. Now there was a target to take his frustrations out on.

He wished he’d gone back to Hilltop with Paul when he had the chance.

When Daryl had finally bullied his way out of Alexandria, crossbow slung over his back, he’d found himself with two hangers on. Rosita, who claimed to know a secret way into Hilltop if needed. And Tara, who seemed to want to protect Rosita more than looking out for Daryl. It had been a compromise, a small but efficient group of fighters sent to make contact and aid Hilltop any way they could. So this was the situation he’d found himself in.

The journey had been fraught with stumbling blocks from the beginning. Between trying to avoid walkers, potential Saviours and the uncertainty of zero contact with the Hilltop, Daryl had not been the most pleasant travel companion. It had taken them so damn long to even make it halfway there, once their car had crapped out on them (dead battery). That combined with the heat of the woods, mosquitos and the high probability of an ambush waiting for them, they were making frustratingly slow progress. Daryl had slipped into growling out responses, or saying nothing at all, choosing to remain stubbornly, sullenly silent. Though the imagined possibilities of what they would find at Hilltop made him want to scream with frustration. 

Silence was far better.

After snarling at Rosita when she suggested taking an even longer route round, she had finally exploded. “Look Daryl, I’m sure Maggie and the others are just fine. Stop acting like a such a -” And then proceeded to call him something in Spanish that had sounded not very pleasant at all, like a cat coughing up a hairball. Daryl sharing this comparison had not improved their relationship at all though it had made Tara chuckle, earning herself her very own glare from Rosita Espinosa.

“You should not laugh. That’s borderline racist.” She had glowered from under her cap.

He rolled his eyes. She knew fully well that’s not what he meant. “Bite me.” He growled, embellishing this piece of wisdom with a rude hand gesture. He felt like being petty, sweat was trickling down spine and he was still no closer to Paul, to Hilltop. He was very much done with her. She wasn’t even fully healed from her own gunshot wound but had insisted on coming along. If anything, she was slowing him down.

“And anyway, I don’t think Maggie’s the one on Daryl’s mind…” Tara chimed in, allowing her words to trail off teasingly but they were enough to make him stop cold. The ladies shared a smugly meaningful look behind him that made him want to hurl his water bottle at the pair of them. He knew Tara was only trying to lighten the mood but he didn’t like being the subject of gossip. Couldn't he have anything for himself? And why couldn’t the mood be dark? Didn’t they realise what they could be walking into? That some of the possibilities would quite literally be enough to drive him insane? 

He pulled himself together with an effort, had to get to Hilltop, get to him.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” He spat out instead with such venom Tara’s eyes had widened. 

She had her hands up in surrender. “Nothing, nothing…”

Rosita looked between them in exasperation as if they’d both gone mad. “Don’t be so damn bizarre.” She scolded at top speed. “Everyone knows you’re all hot for Jesus, big deal. Can we be grownups here and focus on what really matters? We’re going this way because there’s a clearer sightline as we approach. Get over it.”

And with that, she hitched up her pack, picked up the tempo and left them both gawping in her wake.

Daryl, as he fought down a blush, had decided he liked her better when she was with Abraham, even if their relationship had been a complete farce. His temper wants him to share that barbed gem, but his more reasonable side had won out in the end. They were only here to help Hilltop after all.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he was ashamed of who he was, what he was feeling. Just this thing, with Paul, they hadn’t even decided what it was going to be yet, hadn’t had their chance. How was it fair that other people thought they had the right to define it?

He suddenly felt nauseous. How badly he wanted to be able to define it himself, to work it out together. But he desperately needed Paul to be okay for that to ever happen. And preferably this stupid war to be over and done with. Even if Paul decided he didn’t want this, didn’t want him, it would hurt sure, but he needed him to be okay, to be living in this world. He’d be able to cope if he could just have that. He didn’t know what he would do if Paul was…

“Everybody knows?” He blurted out, anything to distract himself, once he remembered how to walk again.

Tara had patted him gingerly on the back. “Well, Jesus was always pretty vocal about liking you in the beginning.”

He practically coughed up a lung at that one, before shakily chugging down some water so he could remember how to breathe once more. 

“Yep. He liked your butt, your arms — really liked the arms actually…” She trailed off, fear in her eyes at Daryl’s expression of mingled embarrassment and horror (and just a smidgen of deeply hidden pleasure). “When he stopped being able to joke about it, that’s when I knew it was getting serious.”

“Stop talking right now,” He choked out, trying not to turn crimson. 

It hurt too much to think of a laughing, joking Paul so far out of reach.

It was slow, dangerous progress, but eventually they had made it.

After avoiding a run in with the Saviours.

____________________

 

“Stop, or we’ll shoot!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s Daryl!”

The argument between the two men on gate duty makes Paul’s head snap up. He’d been sharpening his knives in the sunlight, preparing for tonight, lost within his own thoughts. Upon hearing the argument he throws them to the floor without a second thought before sprinting over to the gates. He couldn’t have heard that name right, had almost given up on making contact with the outside world again, never mind the one person he so desperately wanted to see. His stomach squirms in fear and anticipation. What if they’ve hurt him? How can he be here? It was such a dangerous journey, especially with Negan’s fixation on the hunter. It would be very headstrong to attempt such a journey, so surely the guard were wrong?

Then again, it _was_ Daryl.

Somewhere along the way he realises one of the guards, Alex, is still aiming his weapon over the wall, at whoever stands outside. 

“Alex!” He calls out in confusion, voice breaking. “What’s going on?”

“Could be a trap, Paul.”

“It’s Daryl and Rosita, Jesus. And some other chick!” The second guard - Andy something? - calls out helpfully.

“Open the gates then!” He orders, once the other watchers confirm it through their scopes. He’s here. He’s here and it isn’t a trick. No one could force him to betray them, of that he is certain.

As the gates open it takes him a while to even identify the ‘other chick’ as Tara. There is only one person he has eyes for, drinking him in, checking to see he isn’t injured. He looks hot, skin glistening with sweat, and it makes something inside of him ripple with longing. Daryl’s clothes are torn and dirty, but he’s _here_ , expression guarded, eyes burning into him. It enough to tell Paul he is quite clearly, extremely pissed off. _Great._

Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t seem to be hurt. There is a moment where he’d like nothing more than to hurl himself into the man’s arms, prying eyes be damned, but there’s something almost defensive in Daryl’s posture and he realises there’s a chance none of them know what has been happening here. That he owes them an explanation.

“Jesus, you’re alright!” Tara calls out. “Long time, no see.” He notices the girls look just as worse for wear as Daryl does. There’s a trickle of blood running down Rosita’s temple and Tara moves stiffly. He walks over to them, accepts a fist bump from Tara, a brief hug from Rosita.

“Yes thanks, we’ve been trapped in here for a while.” He concedes, not taking his eyes off Daryl for a second, taking him in whilst the man does the same, measuring him. He realises he could be a bit more courteous, the archer’s glare distracting him somewhat. “It’s so good to see you. Are you alright? How’d you even get here?”

“Went round a couple of Saviours, avoided the road blocks” Daryl answers, voice flat and rusty. “Wasn’t hard to give the others the slip.”

There is something accusatory in his words and suddenly Daryl’s looking away, swallowing hard, hands clenching by his sides. This was not the reunion he’d been hoping for but at least they haven’t torn through the Saviours like a wrecking ball, unintentionally scuppering their plans for tonight. He briefly wonders if they can still go ahead with them, but doesn’t see why not. He steps away from the girls, finally able to approach Daryl, carefully as though he were a wild animal, assessing exactly just how annoyed he may be. Only once he has caught that eye, and Daryl’s scowl has smoothed out slightly at the sight of him, does he briefly pull him into a frustratingly impersonal hug. Back slapping and all, the scent of him overwhelms common sense and he almost leans in to plant a kiss on those thin lips. Daryl’s confused expression as he squeezes Paul’s arm none to gently, manages to change his mind. It stings, this distance between them, and he knows that they are going to have to sort this out fast.

“Come with me,” He says softly, voice low so only Daryl can hear. The man looks up, something heated in his gaze and he can tell that he wants to touch him again, just as badly as Paul wants him to. “You should go see Maggie - she’s in Barrington House,” He says to Rosita and Tara. “She’ll be able to fill you in. Just need to borrow your Daryl for a moment if you don’t mind?”

“Oh please do.” Rosita answers, throwing a dirty look in the man’s direction and it makes Paul smile, seeing Daryl’s returning scowl, so endearingly familiar. He wonders if Tara had to put up with this for the whole journey.

They had no idea what trouble they could have walked into. The thought leaves him cold.

He gently reaches out, takes Daryl by the hand and is pleased when the hunter doesn’t shove him away, though he looks tempted. His grip is just as warm, skin as rough as he remembers. He clasps his hand back hard. Slowly, Paul leads him over to his trailer, of which he is now the single occupant since Maggie and Enid had installed themselves over in the main house during Gregory’s continued absence. Daryl keeps close as they move together, breath skimming over the back of his neck.

Once they are inside, he closes the door before taking a seat at the dining table, just as they did before, talking about _Of Mice and Men_ and his sisters over a bowl of hot soup. He gestures at the other seat and it takes a while for Daryl to accept his offer, scowling at the floor as he does so.

He takes a deep breath, pushes his hair behind his ears and begins. “Alright then, let it out.”

Daryl’s voice is surprisingly calm and measured for someone who’s wearing an expression that seems to want to bore a hole in his head. His gaze is calculating, taking in every detail, making him feel naked. Paul actually fidgets. He isn’t normally a fidgeter, forces himself to remain still. “You’re okay.”

“Yes.” He answers immediately though it isn't a question, more an accusation.

“Maggie and the baby?” Oh how he missed that gruff voice. He shuts his eyes briefly, savouring the sound, before focusing on the actual content of the words, on Daryl’s body language. His forthright stare, so intense, and yes, sexy as hell, he can admit. Just like the look he gave him before he shoved him up against a wall and kissed him furiously. It gives him hope.

“They’re good, as far as we can tell without a doctor.” He hates how formal his voice sounds when inside he’s a wreck of emotions. He clenches his hands, in an effort to distract himself, to keep them off Daryl. He doesn’t know whether he’d appreciate him pushing that strand of hair behind his ear, like he’s itching to do so. He continues: “She’s been having some discomfort, a few sick days but nothing to worry about.”

“And the siege?” Paul raises his eyebrows in confusion at that, at where is he’s getting his information from so Daryl elaborates. “We know. Kingdom tried to get through to you before.”

He sighs wearily. It had been his greatest worry, Alexandria or Kingdom trying to make contact and getting injured in the process. “I was afraid of that. Were they hurt?”

“Got away, just about.” Daryl answers flatly. 

“They were lucky.” He states grimly, and Daryl shifts slightly, sensing his tone, the sadness there. “Every time we tried to leave, they’d attack us. They’ve killed at least three. Katie still hasn’t come home.” He feels the old familiar horror wash over him once more, struggles to contain it, the unrelenting guilt, the sense of failure. He can’t remain detached, as some leaders can. With Maggie out of action, he’d become an informal second in command. It is a responsibility he never wanted, especially when there are lives in his hands. But he had to try and warn the others.

He remembers the last attempt to get to Alexandria. After turning out to be a cracking shot, Katie had insisted on coming along in the other car. Two vehicles, two groups, his and hers. The stinger in the road that had punctured both sets of tires. An ambush. They had targeted her car first, riddled it with bullets as Paul’s car had spun wildly off the road before careening into a tree. They got her, dragged her away in front of his eyes, their firepower was too much, overpowering them. It was all he could do to get his own car full of people away safely. They’d shot at them, killed the man sat next to him ( _his head exploded_ , he sees it over and over…) and let just enough of them get away so they’d know to be afraid. Paul had made the terrible decision to run, to save as many of his people as he could, before more could be killed or taken. He briefly explains this to Daryl in a strangely flat tone.

“I’m sorry…” Daryl responds, thumbnail finding its way to his mouth again, other hand drumming nervously on his thigh. He stills, makes an abortive gesture as if wanting to reach out to Paul, before thinking better of it. Perhaps he could read some of the anguish on his face. “Were you hurt?” He asks, constantly staring and scrutinising.

“I got lucky,” Paul sighs wearily. “Cut my head open in the crash.” He lifts the front portion of his hair up so Daryl can see the cut concealed beneath, now healing over, skin still bruised. Daryl frowns, swallowing hard.

Paul clears his throat, just to get Daryl to quit scowling at his injury as though it personally offended him. “How’s your arm?” 

Daryl shrugs and Paul genuinely cannot tell if he’s being brave or is still annoyed with him.

“Daryl, I’d have come back to you if I could have. You know that.” At least he hopes he knows that. The man is looking away uncertainly and it hurts to see it. “Maggie was unwell and there are people here who might want to hurt her. Gregory’s people.”

“What?” The sheer disbelief in Daryl’s voice almost has him smiling proudly. Of course Daryl didn’t like the man, he had good instincts. 

“Yeah, he’s been making his presence felt.” Paul explains dryly. “Pretty sure he’s working with the Saviours now. Had to convince a few people not to let him back in.”

“Tell me you convinced ‘em with a kick in the face?” Daryl growls out, looking just as annoyed as he felt.

“That wouldn’t be very diplomatic but I can be very persuasive.” He shrugs, smiling innocently. 

“I know you can.” And from anyone else it would be a flirtation but from Daryl it is him being plain honest, straight-talking. He loves that about him, rolls his eyes fondly. “How could anyone follow that asshole?” Daryl bursts out, causing Paul to grin in appreciation.

“There are some who liked Gregory’s style better. No fighting, just bowing down and scraping by. Especially after the last attacks…” He explains. “I couldn't leave Maggie like that, not with things the way they are.” He threads an apology throughout every word. “You understand that right?”

_______________________

 

Daryl looks at Paul and he’s so beautiful, just as he remembered and it’s making his chest tight just looking at him, hearing his calming voice and he wonders if he should be worrying about that at all. _Ah well. Ain’t no doctor in Hilltop anyways…_

Now Paul is looking at him so trustingly, expression filled with concern as through weighing up whether Daryl is going to storm off. As if he even could. “You understand that right?” He asks, eyes large and appealing, willing him to understand and he does. Of course he does.

He nods, finding it hard to swallow. Of course it would be something like that. With no Sasha to watch Maggie’s back, his place would have to be here right by her side. He should have known, should never had underestimated him. He wasn’t broken or defeated, or just plain hadn’t kept his promise, he was thinking of someone else, as always.

He suddenly feels like such a child. The cold shoulder as he walked through the gates when all he wanted to do was wrap his arms round him, lift him off his feet and give him a proper hello in front of everybody. Especially that prick Alex (bet his eyes were on stalks when Paul had taken his hand and lead him back to his trailer, his mind sniggers triumphantly. Take that Mr Conventionally Handsome Nice-Guy). They’ve lost so much time already.

“That’s two promises I’ve broken now,” Paul sighs softly. “Guess I’m not doing so well here.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Daryl answers, small smile threatening to break loose. “S’pose you’re gonna have to make it up to me someday.” And that came out far more flirtatious than intended, if Paul’s slowly spreading grin is anything to go by. “Not that it was yer fault this time. For once.” He amends hastily and Paul actually chuckles.

Then he’s getting up slowly, walking over to where Daryl is sat, still giving him that smile, like he’s going to eat him alive or something, bringing Shiva to mind once more. He nearly forgets to breathe again when Paul suddenly moves closer, now standing over him. Daryl tries to remain calm on the outside, appraising the man before him with a wry smirk, heart racing, and they are caught in each other’s gaze and he wants him so much it’s a physical ache. Then Paul lowers himself into his lap, straddling him, legs either side, so they are face to face. The chair groans at their combined weight but fortunately no comedic mishaps seem to occur. So far. He forgot how light the man is, he thinks as Paul winds his hands over his shoulders, pulling him close.

And so suddenly he finds himself with a lapful of Jesus (definitely a Jesus look). He’s smiling so fondly, so playfully and he finally has him in his arms after weeks of worry and nightmares. He runs his hands over the firm planes of his back, his shoulder blades under soft cotton. God he missed him _so much_. He missed those eyes, clear blue and so very kind. It sort of takes his breath away to see them up close again. He gingerly touches his face, before lifting his hair at the front, checking his injury for himself. The small cut has healed well. He bets it bled like a bastard though, head wounds always do. The thought makes him shudder as he runs his thumb over the injury, trailing his touch down his temple, over his cheekbone, the bearded line of his jaw and staying there, fingers splayed over his neck, his steady pulse. Paul’s eyes drift shut in appreciation and when they find his again, they are soft and hopeful.

He feels his words rumble under his touch. “I actually rather missed you, you know.” Paul confesses, looking comedically scandalised and it gives Daryl an excuse to laugh rather than reply. Because he missed him too, of course he did, to the point where he doesn’t quite know how to word it. How do you tell someone that being without them made you feel physically sick with worry? That nightmarish possibilities infected your dreams until you’d rather stay awake, but the waking hours are no better because he’s still not here? He can’t. It’s too much. So he simply holds him.

He smells so good and clean, skin smooth, beard neatly trimmed and hair flowing like a mane down his back. Even his shirt is gleaming white. He is a comforting weight in his lap, a good ache spreads through his thighs and he flexes experimentally, bringing Paul even closer. This is real and he is finally, blessedly touchable. He can’t stop staring at his stupidly perfect face, taking in all the details. Paul seems to be doing the same thing to him. His hand skims over Daryl’s left arm, the one that got grazed by a bullet, squeezing gently and he suppresses a smile, knowing Paul is checking his injuries too, just making sure he is okay. 

As Paul loops his arms around his shoulders, Daryl slides his hands down, placing them on his hips, squeezing lightly. He moves his hands round to the small of Paul’s back, strokes his waist encouragingly, whilst Paul toys with the hairs of his nape, a soothing sensation that almost has him purring with how good it feels.

“Hi.” Paul says once more, smiling softly under that beard.

“Hi yourself,” He manages to choke out, throat ridiculously dry and he’s looking at his lips, how they curve up, the deep shade of them.

“Still like me?” Paul asks, eyes sparkling with mischief and he has to fight down the urge to laugh, suddenly lightheaded from their proximity.

He glares and shakes his head, now only pretending to sulk, hair swinging. “Nah. You’re all short and bossy.”

It surprises a laugh out of him, eyes shut, head thrown back and it’s all too much, that long neck, the way he moves, hair rippling. Suddenly he’s kissing him, holding his face tenderly, tasting his laughter. The kiss is slow and gratifying, taking his time to say hello, hands finding their way up his back and into his hair and he’s pulling him closer into a desperate embrace. He’d almost forgotten how good it could feel, that hair twining through his fingers. Paul sucks at his bottom lip lightly, runs his hands over every part of him; thighs, waist, chest, arms, shoulders, practically purring in approval.

He breaks away eventually, presses his forehead against Paul’s, closes his eyes and savours this moment, his closeness, the warmth and vitality of him. They breathe heavily, simply holding each other. The relief of having him so close has him shaking. Paul runs his fingers through his hair, hums sweet comforts into the shell of his ear as he holds him close.

“It’s okay, it’s alright baby…” He murmurs, nuzzling his face. “I’m fine. We’re all fine and we’re gonna get through this.”

He shivers under his touch, the strain of the past few weeks suddenly far too much as he clings to him desperately, face back in the crook of his neck, lips pressed against his pulse point. It beats steadily with his life’s blood and Daryl makes a silent vow against it to keep him safe from that moment onwards. He tastes him and breathes him in, making Paul shiver under his exploring touch.

It needs to be like this, he realises. All in or nothing. He can’t live like that anymore. In separate communities miles apart with killers between them, the living and the dead. He knows how dangerous it is to become dependant on someone else in this world, but there’s no turning back now. He laughs when he laughs, hurts when he hurts. There was never really any choice for either of them in the end.

He runs his hands possessively over Paul, the sharp curve of his spine, appreciating the thin material of his shirt as he reassures himself this is real. It is not another dream and the other man rocks him and whispers beautiful words into his ear that he desperately wants to believe.

“We’re okay now, we’re together.”

________________________

It turns out they had arrived just in time for Paul’s extremely ill-advised and dangerous plan to be put into action. And all three of the arrivals from Alexandria wanted to join in. _Big surprise._

Daryl had originally looked like he wanted to kill him with his brain once Paul had explained everything, expression tinged with concern.

“So you wen’ out. All on yer own, found this outpost by _yerself_?” Paul notices the way Daryl’s accent seems to thicken whenever he gets angry but decides to cut him some slack, remembering how close he’d come to falling apart back in his trailer. Now is not the time to tease him, to point out how damn cute it is.

“That’s right. I couldn’t just do _nothing_. Anyway…”

They had realised that this small band of Saviours had to be based somewhere nearby, somewhere well fortified. And of course, the man himself, Negan, had been conspicuously absent the last few weeks. There had to have been an outpost following his orders. So Paul had snuck out of Hilltop one night using Sasha’s tunnel, had tracked them down to a small compound in clearing a few miles west. An old school building, single floor, long abandoned since before the end of days, hidden in a thick growth of forest. There were a handful of guards stationed on the flat tin roof, and no more than twenty men inside, he’d counted throughout the following day. They could take twenty.

“It’s just like that first place we hit.” Paul explains, hoping they’ll come to the obvious conclusion themselves so Daryl will stop glowering at him.

“And look how well that turned out,” Tara sighs, uncharacteristically gloomy.

They stand in the study of Barrington House, Maggie behind her desk, discussing strategy. Or trying to anyway. They didn’t seem to understand. This wasn’t a plan that needed their consent, it was going to happen with or without their approval. Paul just wasn’t sure how to get that through to them, diplomatically. The Saviours thought they had them trapped and running scared. This wasn’t going to be a move they would anticipate. And just because he and Daryl were unofficially together, that didn’t mean the man had the right to overrule him. He respects the fact that Daryl hasn’t tried to do so yet, despite his obvious concern.

“This is a solid idea. We can’t continue to be cut off from the outside world.” Maggie chimes in and Paul feels like giving her a high-five, let the pregnant lady be the bearer of bad news. She looks pale and tired but her resolve is as strong as ever. Paul feels a rush of gratitude and affection towards her. Tough pregnancy didn’t even cover it. “We have to cut off the limbs, take out each outpost one by one…”

“Then we come for _him._ ” Rosita concludes, a fire in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Paul understands, he can see that same bloodlust in Daryl’s expression. The need to finish it. To finally kill Negan. Both of their bodies are suddenly tense, finally getting on board with the plan for all the wrong reasons. He shares an exasperated look with Maggie, sees that she has sensed it too. Recklessness leads to bad decision making.

“But this is purely about freeing the Hilltop.” Paul emphasises, trying to steer the conversation back on course. “We have the volunteers, even have a plan worked out, before you guys blundered in…” He teases and Daryl elbows him gently. Sort of. He might end up with a bruise there. He doesn’t mind. Daryl seems to be keeping him in arms reach at the moment, always prowling nearby. He doesn’t mind that either. It shows he cares, with the bump of a hip or a light brush of his arm, as if checking he is still here. It’s so subtle, he doubts anyone else could see it. Fleeting touches he feels all the way down.

They hash out the remaining details, Daryl somehow persuading him that they should stick together despite Paul’s protests. He doesn't want him anywhere near that compound but he knows how well that’ll go down. They decide to create teams of three instead of two. They are the lightest on their feet after all, the stealthiest and Daryl can handle himself. He strongly suspects the hunter just wants to keep his eye on him. 

Each team of three will take an entrance. Rosita, Tara and the teacher Charlotte (hell of a shot. Had killed that walker on the training day) on one team taking the back entrance; Daryl, Alex and Paul himself take the front. The original choices, a further two teams, would cover the fire exits, twelve people in total. Not many, but Hilltop was still severely lacking in trained fighters, and the less men, the less noise they’d make. They didn’t need many for what Paul had in mind. And Maggie, despite her protests, had been expressly forbidden from joining in. In turn, the had designated Paul the leader.

“I trust you,” She admitted with a smile and Paul had just had to kiss the top of her head, having to stretch to do so.

“See you soon — the both of you.” He’d nodded at her and the bump.

A small team of sharp shooting, stealthy fighters was all they needed, Paul had surmised, praying to all deities that he wasn’t leading more people to their deaths. 

_Not Daryl, at least. Not Daryl._ It was a selfish thought, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stand to lose him, not now. Had begged him to stay behind to look out for Maggie, to no avail ( _“Ain’t no damn babysitter! No offence Maggie…”_ ). 

And so the raid was to go ahead as scheduled. They approach silently on foot, wearing all black. Paul pulled on his leather trench coat, tied a bandana round his neck, and scraped his hair up into a ponytail when the time came for them to make their move. They stand in the darkness of the tree line observing the outpost until all became silent. Just two guards on the roof. Very careless. It was time. Daryl loomed closer for the briefest of moments, gave his hand a quick squeeze, before murmuring into his ear: “Be careful lil ninja.”

To which he replies with a smile. “Shoot straight.” He briefly pressed his cheek against the rough stubble of Daryl’s, praying that the man would remain unharmed as Alex pointedly looked away, folding his arms uncomfortably. He watched, heart in mouth as Daryl stepped out of the shadows, took aim, and shot each of the two guards situated on the flat roof, using his silent arrows in quick succession.

An easy shot, as though it was nothing.

Now they move into their positions, taking an entrance each, before storming the building as quietly as possible, guns at the ready, postures low and tense. The halls are dark, illuminated by a slip of blue moonlight, casting an eerie glow on the murderous proceedings. Each step seems to echo off the laminated flooring. The Savours are either incredibly stupid, or just plain arrogant, hoping for strength in numbers. Paul peers around a door, discovers that the majority of them were sleeping on the floor of the same large room, presumably the school hall, just as they had the night before. He could not have asked for more. Paul draws his head back out from the doorway, beckoning the others over with a silent wave of his hand.

Since there were approximately twenty sleeping Saviours in the outpost, they would still be able to use their original methods. Sneak in, find them, kill them in their sleep. It was going well. Almost too well. The Saviours either never learned from past experiences or were using their men as bait, setting an even bigger trap on the outside (another angle Paul had considered, then dismissed, but kept one of the trios outside just in case). Or perhaps Negan had considered them expendable. Either way, their outpost was sorely lacking in defences — their deadly mistake.

They creep in, each find an unconscious figure encased in a sleeping bag, drawing out their knives, positioned and ready. Since Maggie had handed the authority over to him, this decision was his to make. He nods once, twice, three times, and they each jam a knife into their target. An ear, an eye socket, a temple.

It is short, nasty and brutal work. Over mercifully quick. The crunching sound is one that would haunt him, he knows, for a long time after. He’d done it enough times to the dead, had to convince himself that really it was no different. The men didn’t feel a thing, would never rise up again. These men had chosen to murder and enslave, to work with Negan. It had to come down to this, a death much more merciful than what they would have planned for him, he was sure. The first to dispatch their victims silently move over to the remaining sleeping figures to repeat the procedure over and over until there is no one left alive. Rosita and Daryl dispatch the most, brutally efficient. Paul is about to kill his second when the figure stirs onto his back. A man, around forty years old. He kills him before he can take in too many details, before he can become real to him. The man never wakes up, he does it efficiently, a cold sweat breaking out across his body. He feels sick because he knows this is wrong, just as he knows the pale curve of the man’s face will haunt him for years to come. 

It’s somehow worse, when you can see their faces. He wipes a tear away hastily, not wanting to look weak or to upset the others. This was a choice these men had made. He just hopes they had no moral qualms over what they’d been doing to the Hilltop, that they weren’t enslaved like so many at the Sanctuary, as Daryl and Dwight had both explained before. He cannot afford to think like that.

Paul looks over at Daryl, cleaning his blade off on the inside of his jacket, with hollow eyes. He feels rather horrified with himself, how easy it had been, how fast the justifications flew in his mind. Tara looks a little uneasy, Alex looks downright ill, skin tinged a pale shade of green. He supposes the man had never had to kill like this before. He was lucky. He pats the man on the shoulder as he passes him by, feeling a swell of sympathy for him. They had been good for each other once. Now Alex could barely meet his eyes. He was a good man, so optimistic, hadn’t even killed any walkers before arriving at Hilltop, and Paul’s heart had gone out to him. He was one of those good people in Hilltop he had strived to be better for, had helped him shape the Jesus persona. It hurt, now that the illusion had slipped away but it was for the best.

They spend the next five minutes silently checking each room in groups of three, Daryl prowls through the halls, body taught and lean, just like he did in the woods except now they are hunting people. He shivers. Their group doesn’t find anyone, though from the sounds of struggle he hears, the other groups aren’t so lucky. But no one raises the alarm, no one so much as fires a single shot. They only find bodies by the time they run to help the others. It is a clean, brutally efficient, synchronised slaughter. They have won this one.

_They made their choice._

Doesn’t mean he has to feel good about it. Doesn’t mean it even feels remotely like a victory.

They run into Tara and Rosita’s group and only then do they know they have cleared the whole building, come full circle. Tara looks teary eyed and Rosita’s face is streaked with blood that isn’t hers.

“We done here?” Daryl huffs out and Paul tries not to take in the streaks of gore on his arms. He’s sure he’s fared no better, blood disguised by the dark material of his coat. He feels tired and heartsick. 

“Still haven’t found Katie,” Paul states flatly, knowing it means very little. They could have killed her on the day they took her but he swears he saw them drag her away, flash of blond hair disappearing into the trees where he could not follow. He hates to think of what they could have done to her since then, yet refuses to think that she’d be better off dead.

“How’d you know she’s here?” Daryl asks softly and it’s a reasonable question, phrased gently. Still makes him wince.

“I don’t.” He admits quietly. “I just hoped.” Daryl pads over to him them, eyes in shadows but undoubtedly focused on him, he can feel it. A hand ghosts over his shoulder and he sways into the touch for a moment, head bumping into his broad chest, grateful for the contact, the familiar scent of him.

“There’s a basement down here.” Alex calls out from across the room, interrupting them a little too loudly for his liking. The building is cast in shadows, looking eerie and deceptively empty for a place that’s filled with corpses. He wants to leave. Feels they should leave. It may look as if they’ve cleared it, but he doesn’t want to grow complacent, to make assumptions.

“We should check it out. Could be weapons down there.” Rosita contributes. 

“We found some food but not their stash yet.” Tara says, eyes still haunted. He knows she likes this as little as he does.

“And we know they’re loaded.” Charlotte adds grimly, pushing a blood speckled chunk of red hair back behind her ear absentmindedly. She had been there when they’d been originally ambushed. He wonders if anyone here is not out for revenge.

They’re right though. There could be weapons in the basement. Or something else. Maybe someone else… He realises they are all looking to him as leader to make the call.

“I’ll take a quick look.” He decides, glancing at Daryl who nods once, whether in support or approval, he doesn’t know. Basements are dark and creepy and anything could be lurking down there. He doesn’t feel that he can send anyone else into danger if he isn’t willing to go himself. “You guys stay on lookout up here.” He orders the three women.

“I’m coming with.” Daryl declares with slight hostility, chin jutting out and it makes him smile though a little tiredly.

“Of course,” He rolls his eyes, shouldering his weapon before walking over to Alex.

“Then I’m coming too.” Alex declares, for some reason glaring at Daryl defensively. Whatever. He has no time for this alpha male bullshit. “We’re a team.” 

“Fine.” Paul agrees shortly, trying to ignore the way Daryl is trying to edge in front of Alex with those massive arms of his. “Both of you flank me. From _behind._ ” He emphasises, smirking at Daryl a little, enjoying his ability to pull rank even if he had a feeling the man would make him pay for it later. 

He couldn’t wait.

He knocks on the door a few times with the butt of his automatic rifle, waits a minute, listening intently. There are no sounds of life or death shambling around down there. He clicks on his flashlight, edges the door open, before slowly making his way down the stairs, the two men hot on his heels. His steps echo too loudly on the wooden stairs. He really hopes this place is empty. He wants to go home, crawl in bed and work on scrubbing the last hour or so from his memory with a desperation so strong he’s tempted to turn around right now. But they have to finish this. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he descends, body going on alert as his eyes adjust to the gloom.

It’s one large cellar. His torch creates dancing shadows as he sweeps it over the room, empty save for a few rickety chairs and old tables, their shadows skeletal and misleading. Eventually he notices an unpleasant smell in the air, something akin to dampness mixed with sweet, rotting meat. He’s pulling his bandana back up over the lower half of his face, trying not to gag. There is nothing good down here. That’s when he sees her.

That familiar tumble of blond hair, shivering in the corner like a wounded animal. Her back is facing him, breath making little hitching sounds as though crying and his heart goes out to her. Her entire small form is trembling and he’s overwhelmed by all of that guilt and fear for her, for leaving her behind. It’s her fearful reaction that has him racing over without a second thought.

“Katie!” He calls out.

He hears Daryl bellow as he makes his way across the room to her.

As she slowly turns to face him, he understands why, realises his mistake too late. 

She wasn’t shaking in fear. 

She was _eating._

Blood courses down her chin, dribbling sluggishly onto her chest. It must have been an unfortunate animal that had somehow found its way down here. She gargles, eyes misted over, far beyond recognising him, her flesh grey and rotting. The shock of it is what delays his reaction, is what allows her to lash out, to grab his arm with surprising strength pulling him forward, before sinking her teeth straight into his shoulder.

 

______________________

 

_The walker had come out of nowhere._

_The walker had come out of nowhere and his world was over…_

Daryl hears a strangled scream and it takes a while to realise it’s coming from him and Paul is crying out, gasping in pain, shoving the walker off of him, wrenching it away before kicking it in the chest, back into the wall and the girls are shouting in confusion, footsteps thundering down the stairs and Alex is yelling in horror and then he’s across the room and beating the corpse with his crossbow over and over again. He’s pummelling it until the entire head is reduced to nothing but gore and he still can’t stop, keeps hitting the bloody mound at his feet and he can’t look he won’t look he won’t look… The whole world is spinning in shades of grey and he’s shaking so hard he thinks he’s going to be sick…

“Daryl.” It’s _his_ voice. Calm and shaken and so kind as always and it’s the only thing in the world he can respond to right now. He’s sweating and trembling hard. His cheeks are wet and the fight drains from him, his will is broken at that one word. He stares soundlessly at the pile of gore at his feet, hiding in his hair whilst dragging in harsh breaths, every one painful, an effort.

The walker is dead and it isn’t enough.

This isn’t about him. 

It was his shoulder. His _shoulder._ Can’t do anything about a shoulder…

He gasps in sharp agony at the realisation, turns to face Paul.

There’s a circle of friends around him staring in concern but no one is doing anything. And that says it all. Paul’s eyes are wide and cautious as he slowly approaches Daryl. “It’s okay…” He soothes.

“Wh-what…” He cannot form a word, a new kind of obliterating numbness spreading throughout his mind. Nothing is okay. He’s quite certain that nothing will ever be close to ‘okay’ ever again.

When he really looks at Paul, it takes a moment for him to come into focus. He notices Paul is steadily rubbing at the place where the walker bit him, the juncture where arm meets shoulder. 

There’s no blood.

He’s snatching the man up then, furiously yanking at layers until Paul is crying out in protest and he still doesn’t stop, not until his bandana is gone, coat dragged off one shoulder and his shirt is dragged to the side exposing the smooth, pale skin of his neck…

There’s still no blood.

The pieces begin to fall into place. All the air rushes out of him and suddenly Paul’s arms are the only thing supporting him when his knees buckle.

“It got my coat,” He murmurs, hand in his hair stroking, steadying as the other hand holds him up, round his waist. He palms Daryl’s face, eyes concerned and achingly beautiful. There’s a bright sheen to them and he hopes he didn’t put it there, didn’t upset him. “That’s all, baby.” He whispers and one day he’s going to have to have a word with him about that little nickname, any day now… “Just my coat, it didn’t get _me_.” 

“What?” He mumbles, mouth full of cotton. “You sure?” He’s stammering out now, over and over, It’s all he can manage and he’s actually shaking from the shock of it all and he’s pawing at him, checking him over, searching for any tears or scratches in the material, in his skin. “You sure? You sure you’re okay?” He keeps repeating, like a child in constant need of reassurance.

“Yes, I’m fine, I am, I promise. Oh God. I’m so sorry Daryl…” Paul soothes and there is just the two of them, no room for anyone else. Daryl’s cupping his face with clammy hands, staring down at him hard, taking in every miraculous detail. Paul is smiling shakily up at him, eyes worried. Then Paul is shaking his head in confusion, touching his cheeks, pulling him down so he can pepper his face with little butterfly kisses and Daryl is still clutching at him, pulling him into a hug, body trembling into his smaller frame.

“Thank you…” He slurs raggedly into Paul’s hair and he doesn’t know who he’s thanking, Paul, his friends, a higher power. All he knows is that he has this man in his life for another day. That the world hasn’t ended, not really. That he isn’t going to die with him. Not today at least.

Paul gently pulls away, slings a comforting arm around him, keeping him close as he steers him towards the stairs. The others file ahead, keeping a respectful distance and their comments to themselves.

They go back, find her. Bury Katie later, once tensions have eased. They always take care of their own.

____________________ 

They decide to let the others report back to Maggie.

Daryl drags him back into his trailer by the hand, a role reversal from before. His grip is so hard around his wrist, it may even leave bruises, something desperate in his actions, if not angry. It makes him feel even worse because Paul thinks maybe he deserves anger after what he put him through today.

“Daryl, slow down!” He says breathlessly, he’d almost laugh at the bizarre role reversal if he wasn’t worried the other man was having some kind of panic attack.

Once they are inside, Daryl slams the door shut, firmly pushes him back against it so he stands mere inches away, apparently intent on memorising every detail of his face. His eyes take him in and it’s enough to make Paul restless, face colouring under such close scrutiny. His stomach squirms with nervous excitement upon seeing the heat and approval in those eyes and he has to chastise himself. There’s also worry and concern mixed in there. It’s clear within the tense set of his shoulders, his uneven breathing, the way his jaw clenches. Daryl cages him in and he has to remind himself just to keep breathing, slow and even. His hopes of passionate kisses fade as he sees the fear in his expression, the tension in his body.

They meet each other’s eyes and Paul has a moment to think. _So here you are. This is where I find you. At the end of the world and beyond. Of course I do._ It all makes a sad and crazy kind of sense. He feels as though Daryl is waiting for something, possibly for him to speak. Whether he’s waiting for an apology, or some words of comfort, all possibilities abandon Paul as he stares back at those dark eyes. He stands as tall as he can, taking in the other man, trying to work out what he needs, until Daryl finally speaks, seemingly coming to a decision.

“Take off your clothes.” Daryl orders bluntly, voice rough and low, and Paul’s mouth falls open. Those four words are enough to send his blood heading south and he has to fight it with every unsteady breath he takes, hands clenching determinedly at his sides. So that was what he needed?

“What? Daryl…” His voice breaks as he wonders: _Did he really just say that?_ Closely followed by: _Is this really what he wants?_ The man has suffered a great emotional shock. It would be wrong to start anything with him whilst his emotions are running so high, like taking advantage. But then again, he knows and trusts Daryl completely, his instincts, his judgement. They’ve been separated for so long and he wants him so badly. He can’t be the only one feeling this way?

But is that even what Daryl means by his command, he wonders? The man shifts in front of him, trying to look confident, expression hard and expectant, though not particularly lascivious. Paul blinks up at him, reading him, testing him. Paul slips his thumb over the line of his wrist where it presses against the wall, and the man bites his lip in response.

Daryl really seemed to care about him. No one had ever looked at him this way, not once. Had never acted like losing him would destroy their world. He’s been lost by so many before, and they’d never so much as glanced back. Meaning something to someone was a huge responsibility to shoulder, had almost been overwhelming, something of an honour. He hoped he would be good enough, that he wouldn't let Daryl down. He didn’t feel like he was worth all that, the anguish on Daryl’s face when he thought he’d been bitten… And whilst it had been horrible seeing Daryl fall apart like that, he doubted he would have reacted any differently had their positions been reversed. 

And now he knows, or at least suspects. There’s a strong chance Daryl Dixon may actually love him and that means…well that means just about _everything_ to him. To have earned a place beside him, his trust, his heart. It hasn’t been easy, been long and slow process. But getting to know Daryl, how to read him, his subtle moods hidden behind each expression, was one of the main joys of his life.

“Daryl,” He says softly, reaching out to cradle his face. He tries to select his words carefully, opening and closing his mouth a few times before taking the plunge. “I think you’re in shock.

“Ain’t.” He growls out stubbornly, so very still.

The familiar glare makes Paul smile. “Is this really what you want? Really?” He emphasises, as though talking to someone with a concussion whilst ignoring his hindbrain’s immediate lustful response.

The reaction he gets is not one he expected. Daryl’s eyebrows shoot up in confusion, he pulls back out of reach before folding his arms defiantly, chin jutting out in that adorably familiar manner: “I’m gonna check y’know.”

“Check?” He repeats, mind going completely blank before kicking into overdrive. _Oh dear God what is that supposed to mean?!_ “Check what?” If it comes out slightly strangled, Daryl doesn’t seem to notice.

He can’t have heard that right. Daryl sounds kind of angry, almost argumentative, which is understandable, considering how careless he’d been back in the basement. But what does this mean? Is this some kind of punishment? Is it strangely sexual? Is it wrong that he hopes it’s strangely sexual? His expression gives nothing away. Only Daryl Dixon could make such a straight forward order so inscrutable. 

“Every inch of you.” He answers and Paul freezes, torn between extreme confusion and simmering arousal. _Stupid body getting off on freaky orders…_ “No bites, no scratches.” 

_Oh. That_. He sighs as the pieces fall into place, feeling a rush of fondness and understanding, all mixed in with a generous dose of desire at his proximity. _He wants to check me for walker bites? So that’s what he means, not some really bizarre form of seduction or forced nudity!_ He tries not to feel too disappointed.

“Daryl, I’m fine -” He begins, intending to apologise, to reassure before he’s cut off by an annoyed growl from Daryl that makes his eyes go wide.

“No excuses. Get on with it.” He takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving as he emphasises each word. “Take off your damn clothes.” His voice is so thrillingly authoritative it sends a shiver down his spine as well as a touch of surreal hysteria and relief.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Paul blurts out, trying not to laugh with all this ridiculous affection that seems to want to bubble out of him. Daryl simply glares harder and it makes him wonder whether the man is going to tear his clothes off himself if he delays any longer. _This man…_ “You want to check me for scratches?” He repeats slowly, feeling strangely off-guard. He _never_ gets caught off guard.

“You got a problem with that?” Daryl growls out, face flushing darkly and Paul has to wonder for the briefest of moments whether this man is actually playing him, if this truly is some form of seduction, Daryl Dixon style, special edition. But he really looks at him, taking in his red face, his determined eyes, the jut of that strong jaw, and just knows the man is being deadly serious. He’s flushed with embarrassment and stubborn determination and Paul wonders if he could ever love him more than he does in this moment.

“Nope, no problem here.” He soothes, trying out a shrug with a casualness he does not feel. “Whatever you need.”

Daryl backs off a little then, shuffling his feet as though that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. As if it was too easy. “Huh.” He grunts, considering, as he glowers at the floor. “For real?” And he’s so sweetly insecure Paul has to fight down a smile. Daryl doesn’t like to be laughed at, and he’s being completely sincere, needing to work through the trauma of this afternoon. And if this was what he needed…

“If getting me naked is standard medical procedure, then who am I to argue?” He teases, trying to aim for a light tone just so he can breathe through the tension in the room. He does his best to ignore Daryl’s shame-faced reaction (quite a turn on), and the accompanying ferocious glower.

Daryl places his hands on his hips, trying to look as assertive as before. “Go on then. Do as you're told for once.”

He huffs nervous laughter at that, sensing some genuine frustration beneath his words. Daryl has no idea whatsoever the effect he’s having on him, how his orders are like something out of a damn fantasy, at least on the surface. There’s some real hurt there to work through, genuine fear that he needs to address. 

“Not out here,” He says softly, gesturing to the bedroom and can almost see the protest forming on Daryl’s lips at the implication. That truly isn't what this is about it would seem. He knows that now, holds a hand up before Daryl can further misinterpret his suggestion as anything other than a bid for privacy. “I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m not doing it out here where anyone can look in. C’mon.” He gently reaches out, takes his rough hand in his, leads him into his room.

“Sit.” He orders once the door is firmly closed and Daryl does, obediently, eyes never leaving his, smouldering. He perches on the end of his bed and Paul wonders if this is turning him on as much as is him, or if he’s really that innocent, that oblivious to this inescapable tension that has been building between them for so long. He doesn’t know what will happen next, but he’s desperate to find out. The horrors of the day have been too much. He wants to lose himself in this man for a while. To finally get to touch and hold him after all this time. Don’t they deserve to have that? 

He takes a steadying breath, forces himself to remain calm. It would probably look pretty creepy to undress with a raging boner (he tries not to snigger at the thought), especially if this is purely medical, as Daryl would have him believe. He stands at the foot of the bed, tries to make a plan, to remain calm and focused on Daryl’s needs.

He takes a deep breath, before shuffling out of his leather trench coat, the one that had saved his life today. He slips out of it, one arm at a time, impersonally, looking anywhere but Daryl, with his rough hands spread over those lean thighs, silently staring up at him through sweat slicked hair…Not that he’s looking. He folds his coat neatly over a spare chair with the respect it deserves. Next, he unzips his thin body-warmer, pulling it off briskly. No one has ever made removing a body warmer look sexy, and he doesn’t intend to try it now. But a shirt is a different matter. Does Daryl really want him to do this? He risks a glance at the man. It seems that he does. He leans back on the bed slightly, as if in silent encouragement, attention completely fixed on Paul. He raises his eyebrows minutely, urging him on, and it’s so uniquely Daryl that Paul feels another strong rush of affection for him.

And so slowly, more deliberately, he proceeds to undo the top button of his black shirt. He flips it open with delicate fingers, before looking up at Daryl questioningly.

The man’s certainly inspecting him alright, eyes glued to the small V of newly exposed skin.

_Oh brother. Purely medical, sure._

But this is about Daryl’s needs. So he edges down to another button, fingers trailing over soft cotton, before gently unfastening it, shirt falling open to reveal more of the pale skin of his chest, just above his chest bone. He trails the tips of his fingers over his skin before quirking his head to one side, asking for permission to continue, looking up through his lashes. He wants Daryl to want him to continue. Was this really happening? Was Daryl really forcing him to do the world’s least sexy strip tease for medical purposes and he was going along with it? It would seem that he was. _Right then._

He stares at Daryl, not looking away from him, taking in the way his breath seems to have quickened. The way his eyes never leave the strip of skin exposed beneath his shirt. He licks his lips and Daryl mirrors him, seemingly unaware of it. Then Daryl clumsily sits up, shrugs out of his own borrowed jacket, as if feeling too warm. Paul suddenly misses his stolen wings of leather, how it had suited him so well. The dark material of his shirt strains obscenely over his broad chest, sculpting his arms and Paul longs to move closer, to trail his hands over the clearly defined muscles. The man is a fucking dream and he doesn’t even know it.

“Daryl,” He whispers uncertainly, fingers hovering over the next button and the man gives the slightest nod in response. It has Paul repressing a nervous but triumphant smile, almost predatory, but it’s too late, Daryl has seen. His fingers flex into his knees, shuffling slightly where he sits, bed springs creaking, almost as if in encouragement. That slight nod was practically Daryl pleading, was all he was going to get. Daryl _needs_ him to continue, for him to be okay. And finally, he knows for sure this isn’t a ploy, that Daryl isn’t just trying to get into his pants. He feels ashamed for ever having thought so. The man doesn’t have a deceptive bone in his body.

He nods understandingly, brushing back wisps of hair that have slipped out of his messy ponytail. Daryl’s eyes track every movement like the hunter he is and Paul feels naked already. He swallows hard, eyes helplessly drawn to the man in front of him, before moving on to the next button. And he definitely isn’t imagining Daryl’s very physical reaction, the way his chest moves faster with every breath, so broad, he wishes momentarily that their positions could be reversed, that it was him watching Daryl slowly strip away his layers. His heart beats faster at the thought and there’s a low heat developing in his stomach that’s making him restless. He’s unable to keep the pace slow, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt with deft fingers that only betray his emotions with the tiniest hint of a tremble.

He pushes the shirt back, shrugs it off, letting it slip over his shoulders before pooling on the floor. He studies Daryl, letting his eyes go wide in a way he knows he appreciates. Daryl is leaning forward a fraction, eyes dark, hair falling over his face protectively. His legs fall open a little wider and Paul bites his lip at the sight. The man is bloody killing him.

Daryl seems to be staring at the shirt by his feet, practically frowning at it. His look is focused, carefully considering as he takes in the dark spill of fabric. Then slowly, his gaze travels over Paul’s body, roving past his legs, his hips, his stomach, to his bare chest and remaining there. Paul forces himself to remain very still, face flushing as he tries to not cross his arms or suck in his flat stomach, as Daryl takes him in. Then the man’s biting his lip and suddenly it’s all Paul can focus on. Until he stands up that is.

It is an unexpected motion, lean and very graceful for someone with so much presence, who takes up so much room. But he’s prowling closer over to where Paul is standing frozen and obscurely thinking: _Surely he can see how fast my heart is racing now…_

There’s nowhere to hide. The other man stops a mere foot away, peering at him, almost assessing him from behind his curtain of hair. Paul keeps his hands by his sides, curled into fists so he’s less tempted to reach out, to distract Daryl from what he feels he must do. He shivers lightly, though not from cold. He focuses on looking up at the man in front of him, becoming in tune with his body, the warmth of his uneven breaths, the masculine scent of him. There is an almost desperate pull that is running between their bodies, invisible but very much real, raw and visceral. Has been since the day they met though never so pronounced.

Daryl’s eyes take in every inch of his body and Paul stands a little straighter, on show and feigning confidence when really he is in uncharted territory. For all of his sexual experiences, this is definitely a new one. Then suddenly, Daryl seems to come to a decision. Paul holds his breath as he tentatively reaches out to him. His first cautious touch, a delicate sweep of his thumb over Paul’s collarbone has him sighing with how good it feels. He shivers though it is barely a touch, toes curling and shoulders sagging with relief. The rough pad of his skin, traces over the smooth line of Paul’s clavicle, catching. He breathes shakily at the sensitive contact. Then, almost curiously, Daryl runs the flat of his palm down to his breast bone, touch warm and gentle and it’s all he can do to stare back defiantly, trying to not blush or maybe even cry because he knows. Daryl leaves his hand there a shade too long, warm and lingering and Paul is certain he is feeling the reassuring beat of his heart underneath.

Their eyes meet and there’s almost a small smile on Daryl’s face, hidden but there if you knew how to find it. He moves closer, warmth radiating into Paul’s naked skin. Paul could stand on his tiptoes, press their mouths together if he wanted - and God how much he wants to - but he won’t. It’s not his call to make. Instead, he tries to remain still as Daryl continues his inspection, for that is what this is. His hand trembles lightly, warmth soaking into his skin, and his heart very obviously quickens against his touch, almost embarrassing if it didn’t seem to please Daryl so.

“Say nothing,” Paul chides, upon seeing his smirk.

“What?” And the smug way he says it makes it clear he knows exactly what he is talking about, the effect his touch is creating. So Paul thumps his head back against the wall in amused exasperation. He closes his eyes, effectively baring his whole body to this man. His throat, his heart, everything is his to take.

He hears Daryl swallow hard at the unspoken invitation. Then his hand is running lower, down over his ticklish ribs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Paul squirms slightly, trying not to laugh and spoil the tension, but he’s only human. He opens his eyes to take in Daryl and his eyes flick up curiously. 

“Tickles.” Paul explains breathlessly with a small smile and he thinks he sees a responding smirk, before Daryl continues his ministrations. He drags his hands over Paul’s soft stomach and his insides seem to squirm pleasantly, trying to follow the touch, heat flaring under his skin. He tries not to push into his hands, to not be greedy. He hopes Daryl doesn’t look too closely below the belt, unless he wants to do something about it. Together. Now. He hopes so, very much so but isn’t going to push it. He scratches lightly at the dusting of hair there, and Paul sucks in a ragged breath, head dropping down to track his progress and hide his expression. That large, tanned hand spread against the vulnerable paleness of his skin. It leaves him breathless.

The other hand joins in as they glide back up, soft and experimental over his sides, making him shiver, the skin highly sensitive. He raises his arms to accommodate Daryl’s curiosity, spreading out against the wall as though taking part in a genuine strip search, not this. This is care, this is affection, almost too much - he feels like laughing or crying and he isn’t sure why exactly. Daryl runs his hands over his arms, circling soft skin, gliding smoothly and it’s all Paul can do not to gasp or cry out. Daryl inspects every part of him he can get his hands on, and Paul just takes it — accepts it in wordless, desperate gratitude. The intent and focus overwhelming when combined with his touch. His determination to reassure himself that Paul is well means more to him then he’ll ever be able to express. He swallows around a lump in his throat, loses himself in Daryl’s touch. 

Daryl repeatedly runs his hand over the patch of skin of his lower right tricep curiously, eyebrows raised in a question. There’s a raised, jagged scar under his fingers, he has found through touch alone.

When Paul finds his voice, it comes out low and unsteady. “Broke it when I was fifteen.” He meets Daryl’s eyes, and they are pulling him in, silently asking him to explain. “One of the other kids at the home… Doesn’t matter.” He trails off, not wanting to spoil the mood.

Daryl strokes the scar gently before sliding his hands down to his waist. He leans in even closer so his lips graze Paul’s ear. “It matters.” He feels the rumble of his voice it all the way down his body, swallows hard, couldn’t reply if he even knew how.

Paul sways forward as he lightly scratches at his waist, head bumping into Daryl’s. The other man makes curious a ‘hm’ sound in response, as though cataloguing this information, his pleasured sigh, perhaps for later use. It’s both soothing and exciting and his breath is growing more ragged though he tries to fight it. It’s so strange and wonderful and his blood is rushing south no matter how calm and detached from this he tries to remain. It is impossible. And Daryl can see all of this, must know the effect he is having on his body and still he doesn’t stop.

And then Daryl’s pulling back to examine every each of bare skin, thumbs are gliding over his pectorals, sternum, nipples, and he’s gasping now, trying to meet those eyes cast in shadows, because that has to be intentional, there’s no way it can’t be. A slow, deliberate sweep of rough skin over the sensitive peaks and he’s actually moaning from a touch alone because it’s been so long since he was touched like this and it’s _Daryl._ He’s so gorgeous and infuriating because he’s making that thoughtful sound again and he feels like head-butting him or rutting against him — at this point he’s not fussy. 

He has goosebumps, his heart’s racing, breath is unsteady and his nipples have hardened into peaks and Daryl seems to be taking that in too like he’s some kind of exhibition and it’s so weird but strangely hot, the catch of callouses leaving him desperate for more. He’s sweating now, leaning back into the wall, slamming his head back. But then those hands are sliding up and round his neck, circling lightly, not squeezing. His pulse thumps steadily against his touch, beating in his head, the feeling of being ensnared, strangely exiting. He tilts his head back, face so hot, seeking the coolness of the plaster behind him, and Daryl’s fingers flex over is Adam’s apple, but never grip, trailing over the vulnerable flesh in a way that has him gasping. 

Daryl runs the flat of his hand over his shoulders again and again, remembering, touch lingering, applying gentle pressure, as he shakes slightly from the memory of the walker, no doubt. He massages the muscle experimentally, as if trying to expunge the memory and Paul sighs at how good it feels.

“I’m fine…” He whispers under his touch, lids heavy and Daryl meets his gaze finally. His eyes are bright, so filled with emotion that Paul is desperate for his touch again, for his kiss, for anything he may be willing to give him. He is burning for him.

Instead the hunter merely nods. Then one hand is reaching, gliding over the back of his neck, higher, to his nape and he tips his head back instinctively and Daryl’s face is just there, knees bent so they are level. He presses his face into Paul’s neck, breath hot as he inhales shakily and holds it, just stays there for a moment, gathering himself. Paul’s hands find their way to the broad expanse of his back, lingering, sensing he won’t be allowed to push much further. That this is Daryl’s turn to explore.

He hopes he gets his chance soon.

Then there are fingers tangling in his hair as he grips, sliding the hairband out so carefully. Paul had forgotten he’d even been wearing it and exhales in relief at the liberation, scalp relaxing. Those gentle hands card through his hair, fanning it out so soothingly, his eyes close as he trails idle patterns on Daryl’s back, pressing his face into his shoulder. Only when his hair is lying evenly across his shoulders does Daryl take a step back to admire his work, jolting him from his relaxed state as he withdraws his steady warmth.

He sees Daryl and there is heat there. Yes, there is. It’s clear he has not remained unaffected. His eyes are wanting, black with lust and he’s breathing heavy. He’s apparently drinking him in, the juxtaposition of dark hair against pale skin, the fine beads of sweat on his chest, his ragged breathing.

“Daryl -” He begins but is cut off.

“Turn.” Daryl orders and Paul’s brain takes a moment to process what he is asking, thoughts slow and hazy. His mouth is dry and when Daryl growls under his breath he feels like applauding because this is somehow managing to push all of his buttons at once. It’s ridiculous how confusedly turned on he feels, how excited and nervous his gaze makes him, but he obeys wordlessly. Paul turns on the spot with his eyebrows raised as sardonically as possible, attempting to look detached though there is a good chance he ruined the effect by panting.

And now he can’t see, can only trust and feel, grain of the wall before him. The long pause followed by sudden breath on the back of his neck has him shaking with arousal and restraint. He jumps a little when suddenly there are hands running down the full expanse of his back until he is really panting then, trying to push back into him but Daryl won’t let him, hands hard on his waist, keeping him in his place, intent on completing his task. 

“Stay still.” And the order has him flushing all over, almost whimpering but he nods affirmation. Yes he can do that, if it’s what Daryl needs. He can.

And this is almost worship, the feather light skims and lingering touches. The light scrape of callouses on skin making him shiver, the clench and flex at his waist. He has to fight down a moan when fingernails scrape over the sensitive skin of his hips, over the dimples either side, bites down hard on his lip. His touch lingers, taking what he needs, every inch, the wings of his shoulder blades, down his spine, even the underside of his arms, gentle and intent, eyes still examining, just to be sure.

Then there’s his hot breath again, ghosting down the back of his neck, his spine, and his temperature is rocketing, body breaking out in a fine sweat. Because those hands are stilling, sliding round to come to rest on the flat of his stomach. The man finally, blessedly, leans in, mouth on his nape and hips against the small of his back. Every inch of him lining up, pressed against him so intimately. 

And he’s hard. 

He can feel it, just above the swell of his ass and it takes every inch of willpower not to rock back into it. He remains perfectly still, closes his eyes, focuses on breathing in synch with Daryl, slow and heavy, moving together. The current in the air has changed, examination time is over. 

“What about the rest of me?” He whispers, voice ragged and heart in his mouth as he hopes this won’t break the spell.

He gets a growl in place of an answer, a warning as the man presses his face into his hair, stubble dragging, hips beginning to rock slightly into him and it makes his mouth pool with saliva. His heart races with desperate need. Their breath is ragged, filling the room obscenely and they’ve barely even started. He’s safe in the cage of his arms, tilting his head back against him, long neck exposed to whatever he wants to do to him.

And then he’s rewarded for his patience, for obeying because Daryl’s mouth finds his neck, scrapes his teeth along the extremely sensitive skin of his trapezius. The act is almost carnal with intent and Paul gasps before pushing back into him, melting into his embrace. And Daryl is pushing him into the wall, holding him steady, before grinding his pelvis, his cock, firmly against his ass in one slow, deliberate drag that has Paul’s mind short-circuiting. He hears Daryl groan and has to bite his lip hard, cock now pulsing in the confines of his pants. And Paul is panting, trying to steady himself with one arm flat against the wall, and reaching around with the other to grab hold of his waist, desperately trying to pull his body closer.

And Daryl is huffing hot breaths into his neck, and they are rocking together when his hands slip lower, gliding over the softness of his stomach, gripping his hipbones until Paul is writhing against him. Daryl finds the buckle that fastens his belt, his criss-crossed knife holsters. He runs his hands over the leather, again and again, testing, before yanking him back hard, closer to him, firm muscles trembling against him. It’s all Paul can do but to melt into his touch, head thrown back, eyes closed, drowning in him.

“Can I?” Daryl is growling into his ear, placing kisses on the line of his throat. “May I?” He drawls and Paul is nodding frantically even if he doesn’t know what he’s asking for certain but wanting it all the same. 

“Please,” He murmurs, voice low and ruined already. 

Then those hands are blindly flipping open his belt buckle and it’s like one of his dreams, except so unusual and vivid and everything he wanted it to be, if nothing how he’d imagined. His hands are caressing the smooth skin of his lower stomach, teasing circles before trailing through the hair there experimentally and he groans encouragement. Fingers dip below his waistband and a low heat flares under his touch…

But Daryl stills, he hesitates. Even the wonderful rocking rhythm slows, becoming less fluid, more uncertain and stuttering. Daryl is panting into his ear and he has Paul moaning. What more encouragement does he need? Paul wriggles against him, trying to shimmy out of his pants with no shame at all because this is a great idea, the best idea. But those hands are suddenly withdrawing, even as Daryl buries his face in his neck, as his hips press forward a little harder, body betraying him.

“This okay?” Paul asks, _please let it be okay!_ And he’s sliding his own hand over Daryl’s arm, and his other hand crooks back, finding his hip, his ass, and gripping just so, applying pressure, encouraging, and he’s pushing back into the heat behind him…

And Daryl’s withdrawing, arms going pliant and slipping away and it’s enough to make him scream with frustration but he doesn’t. He lets him go, turns to face him, completely baffled but trying to understand, even whilst desperately wanting - needing - those arms back around him.

“M’sorry, I don’t know how to…” And Daryl’s words are trailing off, face bright red and eyes looking anywhere else. He looks humiliated as he scrubs his hands over his face, paces the room. He is so vulnerable and so handsome, practically a wreck already and they had only just began. It makes Paul long for him.

“Daryl…” Paul begins, trying to catch his breath.

“What?” 

He says it into his hands, voice raw and muffled and so Paul pads over to him, gently pries those hands away before wrapping his arms around Daryl’s waist, and looking up at him. Daryl ducks, rubs his face against his shoulder, hiding.

“It’s okay,” Paul soothes, subtly angling his hips away so as not to pressure him. His hands finds their way into Daryl’s tangled hair, strokes encouragingly. “You don’t have to have everything at once. We can go slow.”

He doesn’t know whether Daryl has ever done this before, if it even matters, not with the way he was touching him. He pulls back so he can meet his eyes, and has to take a deep breath even if he feels he’s going to explode with frustration, though not at Daryl. It’s his own stupid body’s fault, getting carried away. He wants him so much it’s kind of hard to think straight, but he isn’t going to push it.

“Don’t wanna go slow,” Daryl growls out slowly, voice low with heat and it’s all he can do not to jump the poor bloke there and then but no. It has to be his choice. 

He squirms in Daryl’s grasp. What is he doing to him? “We can work on that…” He smiles, not too lecherously, he hopes. And Daryl butts his head against his shoulder, groaning.

“I’m so bad at this.” He murmurs, voice muffled by Paul’s body and he almost laughs at that, running his fingers through Daryl’s hair in what he hopes is a calming manner.

“I beg to differ.” Definitely some lech-ing there, he can admit. His voice deep and hopefully tempting as Daryl practically drapes his body over his. “It’s okay to get nervous. Everyone does. I did, when you ordered me to strip.” He admits, before adding sheepishly: “And you say _I’m_ bossy…” 

Daryl huffs what may be a laugh into his shoulder, a hot burst of breath, lips grazing bare skin and that’s better. He can practically feel his body relaxing in his arms. He runs is hands over those broad shoulders, his gorgeous arms, squeezes lightly. 

“D’you remember what I said?” Daryl asks, crossing his arms over Paul’s shoulders as he pulls back a little so they can finally make eye contact. He is effectively caged in his arms once more but that’s exactly where he wants to be.

“About what?” Paul asks curiously, trying not to move because he’s pretty sure the friction of his pants, when combined with Daryl’s voice, is actually going to kill him. What a way to go.

“‘Bout you.” Daryl clears his throat and his eyes are suddenly blazing down at him. Almost as though proud of what he was sharing. Paul freezes having just realised the way he was swaying into the other man. “Wanting you. All of you.”

Upon hearing those words, Paul holds perfectly still, the very definition of restraint as his body floods with heat. “I vaguely recall.” And his voice comes out far too husky to pull off ‘wry’.

Daryl is staring at him patiently, as though watching him puzzle something out. And he finally realises what Daryl is hinting at in his own nervous way. Beating around the bush as they call it. This is him giving permission. This is him asking Paul to take the lead, willing him to remember how he’d once said he wanted all of him, as if he could forget.

Daryl’s hands are sliding round to his shoulders reflexively gripping them tightly. His eyes keep darting away and he’s pretty sure Daryl must be sporting an impressive erection still, or at least he hopes so. The man is nervous. Very. And he wants Paul to teach him, to make it good for him. That was one huge responsibility. He was showing so much trust towards him, even as he can feel the other man’s body thrumming with nervous tension. 

He reaches out, cups his face lightly, angling it so he can better read his expression. “What are you afraid of?” He asks softly.

“Ain’t afraid of nothing.” Daryl replies instantly, edging closer so they are sharing breath, his warmth radiating into Paul’s skin and it makes him light headed and daring.

“Prove it,” He murmurs, lipping at his mouth gently, a ghost of a kiss. “I’m going to take a shower.” He adds, letting his words sink in. “Do you want to join me?” 

There’s a challenge in his invite, he knows. Prove how unafraid you are. Take this step, follow me. But he can tell by the way the man freezes, by the minute increase of distance between them, that he is still having doubts. It would help him to relax. It might make him less nervous. And besides, he can still see flecks of blood on his hands, arms and face, whether human or walker he doesn’t want to know. But it shouldn’t have to be that way. Having sex for the first time with blood on their skin and death on their heels. Didn’t they deserve better? He wants something tender and good, bordering on worship. That’s what Daryl deserves.

He slides his hand along the rough texture of his jawline, stroking the skin of his throat and Daryl’s eyes slip shut even as he shakes his head lightly. “No, m’fine. I can’t…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He says gently, running his hands through his hair.

And so many rejoinders run through his head. _Are you sure? Thought you wanted to check every inch of me? Don’t you ever shower? Have you changed your mind about us?_

_Don’t you want me?_

Instead he smiles sadly, tries not to feel too defeated. It was a long shot anyway. “Okay… If you’re sure. Will you wait here for me?” And he hates how uncertain his voice sounds.

His hair slips through his fingers as Daryl gives a small nod and then he’s leaning down, giving him the lightest of kisses that lingers long after he pulls back, stares down at him uncertainly. 

“I don’t mind,” He assures Daryl, because he looks as if he’s worried he’s upset him. “It’s your choice, just as I choose you. You know that right?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, simply withdraws and trails away into the bathroom, leaving him with something to consider. He will get clean and prepared (just in case), he will relax, maybe run the cold tap for a while so that he can calm down. All the while, he hopes that maybe Daryl will find the courage to change his mind. Or at least still be here when he returns. It’s a hell of a gamble, but there is so much to gain.

 

___________________

He hears the water running.

He hears the water running and feels like a complete asshole. A cock teasing asshole, as his dearly departed brother might say. But that’s a bad trail of thought to go down. His brother would probably lamp him, and spit on him if he could see him now. Not that he particularly cared what Merle would think right about now. Paul was so beautiful and important and alive and that meant just about everything to him.

_So why am I being such a fucking coward?_

He sits down on the edge of the bed, grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, until lights appear behind the darkness of his eyelids.

It had been going well. Okay, it hadn’t exactly been his intention to seduce Paul. He’d genuinely wanted to check for bites or scratches after the fucking horror of the day, to reassure himself, that he was still here. Admittedly, it had been a wonderful side effect. Little weirdo liked being bossed around, he can oblige. And seeing him calmly unveil pale, unmarked skin… Unravelling the layers that he usually kept concealed, following his orders in a way that made him seem both confident and vulnerable, had been an extreme turn on, he can admit.

He’s still uncomfortably aroused, sound of water not helping with the flood of images that accompany it. Paul. His long and naked body, water trailing over his skin as he soaps up every inch…

It’s too much. Just like before. He got overwhelmed, then scared. Then he panicked because Paul is so young and unscarred, a burning light in this dark, fucked up world and he doesn’t want to ruin that like he ruins every damn thing he gets his hands on.  
But the sounds he’d made. He’d wanted him back, maybe just as much. And the things he said.

_“I choose you. You know that right?”_

It was mad and wonderful and it made no sense for Paul to choose him, to love him. So why was he still sitting here, waiting for Paul to return? Why wasn’t he leaving, saving them both from a messy end?

Because it’s far too late for that. He chooses him too.

And he trusts him. With his life if not Paul’s, not after today. The memory leaves him cold, shaken and nauseated. He has to protect him, wants to be there for him. He needs to know that he is loved, that he would be missed. The look on his face after the incident with the walker. As if he couldn’t understand why Daryl would be so upset, not over him. It was insane. If Paul had been bitten, the light would have been snuffed out. All of it. How could he not see that?

He needed to see that.

And so Daryl realises that he wants to be with him. And it’s as simple as that, in every sense of the phrase. He has to be with him.

And so, with his heart in his mouth and sweating hands, he stands up, slowly walks over to the bathroom door and reaches out for the handle, waits. He can hear the steady fall of water over his own heartbeat. He takes three deep, calming breaths before turning the handle, nudging open the door, and stepping inside.

The room is fogged up with steam, poorly ventilated with one slip of a window. It’s small, barely more than a cubical and he edges in, pulse pounding in his ears because he is there. There’s no shower curtain and his view is completely unrestricted as he curiously inches closer, feet scraping clumsily over tiles. 

The long, pale curve of his body. All of that smooth skin. He’s facing the fall of the water, letting it cascade down his face so Daryl has a full view of his back. His dark fall of hair is plastered to his neck, dotted with soap and he itches to run his fingers through its silkiness. Even as he thinks it, Paul does exactly that, over and over, fingers trailing until the soap is completely gone and Daryl cannot take his eyes off of the sight, mesmerised.

He eventually drags his eyes away so they can roam lower, following the clear flow of water down the elegant curve of his spine, to the two dimples either side, just above the swell of his ass. Daryl is usually very matter of fact about the nudity. It’s something you just get used to in small communities these days. But this is something else. The humidity doesn’t help and soon he’s breathing raggedly at the sight, insides dripping with heat; so round, full and perfect. He notes that Paul has very long legs for such a short person, he hides a fond smile at the thought. But his ass… Cargo pants cannot do it justice. His face heats at the sight of water trailing over it and he’s pretty sure he should make his presence known before this starts to feel too invasive. But Paul invited him here. Probably not to stare at him though, like some old creeper. It’s hard not to. He wants to sink his fingers into him, to press against him, all of those desperate urges he’s been pushing down until this very moment because it’s _Paul._ And this is _them._ And he is going to do this.

Even as he thinks it, Paul glances over his shoulder, offering a flicker of a pleased yet teasing smile before turning back, continuing with his administrations. Must have seen him in the faucets or heard him. _Bloody ninja._

He slowly runs his hands over his body and Daryl tries not to flinch, to remain calm. He’s only washing, seemingly happy to let Daryl watch and so he does until looking just isn’t enough anymore, he wants him, wants to grab at him. He edges closer clumsily, reaching out with his heart in his mouth. His throat is so dry and a part of him still feels like running from this, because it’s so huge, so irrevocable, but it feels right, like it’s about time. He could have lost it all today…

So slowly, he extends his arm, reaches out, and trails his hand over the smooth surface of his hip, to the curve of his ass. And he feels Paul’s resulting shiver. The way he stills, braces his hands on the tiled wall in front of him like he’s letting him explore his body all over again.

“Daryl.” Paul sighs as he runs the flat of his palm down his spine, so easy with the aid of water. And then Paul is turning, reaching out, wet hand bunching his shirt collar, using it to haul him closer. And he’s not sure who instigates it but he’s suddenly kissing him. Paul’s arms are locked around his shoulders, finding purchase and his body is pressed against his, soaking him in the process but it doesn’t matter. His hands are slipping through wet locks and his mouth moves hungrily against Paul’s, over and over, tasting him and taking in droplets of water and it is so damn good, everything slick and warm. Paul moans against his lips as his hands slide down his back, pulling him even closer, just as Paul tries to drag him into the shower, fully clothed or not.

And Paul is clinging to him, slipping in the tiny stall and he’s laughing in his arms at his own clumsiness, and that will be the detail he’ll cherish the most. Wet, naked but _laughing_ in the best way. His eyes wide and beautiful, something vulnerable in the way his hair is slicked back, leaving his face completely exposed and somehow even younger. He grips his hips, holds him steady.

“Get in.” Paul orders, voice husky yet filled with repressed amusement and Daryl disentangles himself a moment before kicking off his socks and boots and attempting to step in. He forgets to be nervous, forgets to be afraid. Paul is facing him, watching his every move and he tries not to gawp. The delicious shape of him, the V of his hips, the sparse dark hair trailing lower, right down to the hardening length of him, how it curves just so, flushed and ready, something predatory in his eyes.

And he’s in the shower, scooping him into his arms, pressing him hard against the wall, clothes be damned and he can feel him smiling again, even as he’s gasping desperately against his mouth. And the water is so warm and he can feel him pressed against the entire length of his body through clothes that cling and it makes him lose his mind a little with how good it feels. Finally being able to run his hands over every inch of him, hands sliding over wet skin. He’s alive, and healthy and he wants this too. He presses against the smaller man possessively, protectively, body overwhelmed with heat. Paul’s beard rubs against his skin, his hands slide over his soaked shirt, raising against the material.

“Take this off.” Paul orders, trying to rip the soaked and clinging shirt right off him. And he’d be happy to oblige if his hands weren’t so busy trailing over him, sliding down to palm the fullness of his ass and squeezing experimentally, pulling him closer. So it is left to Paul to undress him, yanking the offending garment off his shoulders, before throwing it in the corner of the room.

And he’s staring. Fingers tracing over his chest, thumb brushing over his shoulder, where he was shot. He presses his mouth against it, kissing the raised scar until Daryl is gasping from the hot press of his mouth, the sweep of tongue. Paul’s hands run over his back, feeling the scars there and he doesn’t flinch. Paul merely pulls him closer, hands in his hair, pushing wet tangles out his eyes whilst murmuring with complete sincerity: “You’re gorgeous. So gorgeous.” 

And he burns and blushes because there’s no way that can be true but he appreciates Paul saying it, making him believe it, if only for a while. His litany of scars, the odd grey hair, his wrecked muscles. So he kisses him, as Paul’s hands trail over his arms, his clearly defined chest muscles. He finds the places that make him shiver, with the scrape of nails or press of his lips, muscles trembling. Clever fingertips ghost over his chest, tracing the letters of his mother’s name, tattooed over his heart. When they find his nipples it rips a groan right out of him when they squeeze just right. He’s beyond embarrassment as Paul takes the lead, kisses his neck, bites at his pulse point. 

Then Paul is reaching down to undo his pants, trying to progress. He leans on him, Paul holding him as he wriggles out of his jeans with great difficultly and it has even him snorting with laughter because it’s so ridiculous and thank goodness he decided to go commando. And when Paul’s staring at him like that, licking his lips and all, he has no time to be nervous. Because his hands are on him, expertly sliding down his stomach, making the muscles jump. And he’s taking him in and apparently liking what he sees. And then he’s crudely asking for permission in his ear and Daryl is nodding desperately, biting his lip as his hand passes over the length of him and it has him reflexively gripping his hips, moaning because it’s never felt that way before, never. Intense pleasure curls in his stomach and he leans heavily on Paul, after just one touch.

“Jesus…” He groans.

“Thought you stopped calling me that.” And the fact that he can make a joke like that, like he isn’t pulling him into pieces, like Daryl isn’t bucking into the tight warmth of him, has him butting his head against the man’s chest in exasperation. 

“Paul…” He growls a warning, lost in the sensation of his touch.

“Sorry, sorry…” He murmurs, repeatedly kissing Daryl’s pulse point. Then sucking on it and it nearly makes his legs buckle. “Easy… Say if you want me to stop.” He orders, hand sliding from his cock to his balls, squeezing gently until Daryl is whining low in his ear, whole body trembling. 

_Stop? Stop? He’s completely nuts._ Daryl’s stomach is tight with arousal, whole body tensed with anticipation as Paul’s hand travels to his hip, around to his ass. The other joins and they squeeze deliberately before Daryl can even begin to feel the loss from their prior places. “Slow,” He whispers, as Daryl rocks into him, pushing into the damp slickness of his skin and that’s good enough, almost as good as his hand and he’s damn near rutting against the guy before he can stop himself, pressing him back against the tiles, tongue in his mouth, almost lifting him off his feet.

And Paul’s arms are round his shoulders, clinging and he can feel him pressed hard against his thigh and it’s surreal, that he wants him this much too. But he realises he’s going too fast, being too greedy but he wants him so bad, all of him. And he needs that more that he needs a quickie in the shower, no matter how badly he wants to get off right now.

He murmurs all of this into Paul’s ear, none too politely, and the other man groans. “You’re killing me,” He says dramatically, pressing against Daryl exquisitely. He shudders at the turn of phrase but lets it go. 

“Want you,” He repeats, more urgently this time, grinding into him to illustrate his point.

“Got me,” Paul beams at him, though his eyes are dark as he runs his hands over Daryl’s torso, sinking into his muscles appreciatively. “And I have you. We’re okay. We’re both fine. So lucky…” He murmurs and Daryl feels exactly the same way, so desperately grateful for the man in front of him. He places a lingering kiss on his jugular, tasting his heart beat, feeling Paul’s resulting shiver.

“Stay with me,” Daryl growls out, barely audible over the fall of water. Even he isn’t entirely sure what it means. Only that he can’t go through another day like today. With the nightmarish scene in the basement. He clutches at Paul, hands in his hair.

Then Paul is turning the shower off, reaching for a huge white towel and wrapping it around Daryl’s shoulders, sharing it, sharing warmth as his arms slip round his waist and he snuggles closer. They kiss over and over again as Paul dries them off, a tangle of limbs and desperate press of lips.

Paul takes the lead once more, towing him along by the hand, as if he needed any encouragement to follow the lean body in front of him. He stumbles after him into the bedroom, watches as Paul makes his way to the bed, as he slowly lies back on it, spreading himself out in the centre, waiting. There’s no shame, lying there like an offering, as if waiting to see what he will do, Daryl’s move, his choice, another challenge. His skin is pale against the sheets, damp hair spread out in inky waves as he stares up at him with those eyes, daring him, taking in every detail. Daryl stares, standing at the foot of the bed, before making a choice, following his basest instincts, cock twitching. He slips down onto his hands and knees, making the bed dip and creak under his weight. Then it’s Paul’s turn to swallow hard, to look nervously excited. Once he’s sure he has the other man’s attention, sees him squirm a little, he begins to prowl towards him, until he’s crawling over Paul’s body, caging him in his arms once more, straddling him. He stares down, heart lodged somewhere in his throat as Paul twines his hands into his hair. They breathe heavy, savouring the moment.

“Hey baby.” And there’s that infuriating nickname again that somehow has his heart pounding in a really good way and the prick seems to know it. He looks up at him almost cheekily, eyes dark and a sensuous smile playing about the corners of his lips. He hooks a leg over him, and it makes his heart stutter, the press of his naked body against his own, finally, a long line of warmth. Paul seems to radiate heat and it has something in his chest inflating. 

“Yeah about that-” He begins but Paul surges up, is kissing him hard. He stretches out luxuriously on top of him, the full press of their naked bodies and it is heaven and it’s all he’s ever wanted even if he never realised. It’s why it never worked, never felt like this before because it wasn’t _him_. There’s only him now.

And he can’t let himself feel nervous. Can’t feel afraid anymore. There’s just Paul and clench of his hands, the scent of clean skin, the sticky press of him against his thigh and he trails a hand down and touches because he can’t not. And when Paul’s spine arches up, when he gasps and scrabbles at his back, he’s so very glad he followed the urge.

“Go slow…” Paul pants out which is hypocritical for someone who is rutting against him like that, hands trailing over every part of him, mouth against his neck, puffing out hot breaths. And Daryl is shaking, trying so hard to hold back. He manages to raise a brow, trying to convey this and Paul just gets it. “Don’t brag,” He scolds, laughing breathlessly.

And just when he’s gotten used to the pace, the ninja is flipping them, encouraging him to go with it so he can straddle him and he cannot form a word of protest even if he wanted to. “Like this…” Paul murmurs and he blindly follows, hands finding their way to the firm muscles of his lower back, squeezing, constantly exploring. Paul leans over him, thighs pressing against his sides, hair swinging forward as he reaches for something in his bedside table. He pulls out some kind of moisturiser that makes his mind, his whole body, stutter to a halt with the possibilities.

“Relax,” Paul soothes, swooping down to kiss Daryl’s lips, perhaps feeling his whole body tense up between his thighs. “It’s for me. If that’s what you want?”

If that’s what he wants. He’s breathing as if he’s been in a race and his cock is pulsing as the other man looks down at him. Paul’s eyes are dark and focused, lips full and flushed, waiting for an answer. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something so much on such a physical level before in his life. He wants his hands, his mouth, his cock… 

He’ll take whatever Paul wants to give him. 

He nods frantically in response, biting his lip as he stares up at him in something close to wonder. 

Paul runs his hands over his chest, sighing contentedly as Daryl stretches under his touch, so responsive. He lays his hand over his heart, quirks his head to one side, almost teasingly. “Was that a yes?” 

Daryl gasps, bucks up into the warmth of him. His cock slips against his ass, and it makes his eyes roll back. He’s harder than he’s ever been and Paul’s asking if he’s sure?

“Yes I’m sure you dick. Paul, please.” He grumbles and it isn’t a whine, it isn’t, no matter how much Paul smirks down at him, eyes alight with warmth and affection. So much so, that he has to close his eyes.

“Have you ever…?” Paul trails off, perhaps feeling that his question is too invasive, but when Daryl answers it is open and honest. Barriers torn away through such intimacy.

“It never felt like this.” He admits in a rush, pulling him close.

Then all he can do is feel. Paul’s expression is soft. His hands run over his chest, he leans down to kiss his collarbone, tasting him. His damp hair trails over sensitive, overheated skin. Paul drags his body against his, ass rubbing against his cock so it slips between his cheeks just so. It tears a groan right out of him. His mouth finds his chest and Paul trails kisses over heated skin, before sucking one of his nipples experimentally. The pleasure is sharp and unexpected, accompanied by a scrape of teeth until Daryl is trembling.

“Paul…” He cries out, voice ragged and he feels the man smile against his chest, words ghosting over the sensitive nub.

“There you are.” And he mouths his way back up to Daryl’s lips, which he eagerly accepts, kissing him messily, lots of teeth and tongue, losing control. 

“Easy now.” Paul whispers, leaning back and the friction makes his mind blank out. He runs his hands over the beautiful stretch of skin in front of him, his chest, the slight outline of his ribs and the man shivers in response. “I already worked on myself in the shower a little. But you can never be too careful.” 

His voice is breathy and matter of fact and it makes Daryl curse, face flooding with heat at what he could have walked in on if he’d just come to his senses a little sooner. Long, delicate fingers, disappearing into his own body, opening himself up so carefully… Daryl hears the click of a bottle opening as his fantasy comes to life in front of him. He opens his eyes, body rocking up instinctively as he watches Paul pour a little cream into his hand, eyes heavily lidded in concentration. He coats it liberally over his fingers before reaching round, arm crooked at an awkward angle…

And Daryl may not be able to see but he can imagine. His fingers entering himself, pushing in, taking it. He can see his reaction; the look of deep concentration on his face, the beautiful flush across his skin, the light sweat on his brow, the way he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut, muscles clenching. His body is taut like a wire, and Daryl runs his hands over every part of him within reach, gathering him close, his sweat slicked chest, his sensitive hips, then bravely, the hard curve of him. Just a passing touch, a curious squeeze over hot skin that has Paul crying out. So he does it again, drinking in his reaction, the hitch in his breath, the snap of his hips, eagerly pushing into his touch, skin so very hot. Then he’s leaning back, chasing the two sensations of his own hand and Daryl’s, torn between the two, beginning to ride it out. There’s a sweet little crease between his eyes as his brow furrows in instinctive pleasure. Daryl circles his hand around his cock, growing confident, tries to pump in earnest, the way he knows how, wanting to see him enjoying this, needing to see it.

He only stops when Paul takes his hand in his, brings it to his mouth, places a kiss on the flat of his palm. The interference has him concerned until Paul says breathily. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna finish too soon.” And having to stop may be disappointing, but boy does it make him smug. 

“You liked that?” He drawls out, tongue heavy, gasping for breath. He just wants to hear him say it.

“Yeah I liked it you ass,” Paul grins down at him, and Daryl basks in it. Then Paul is biting his lip as his other hand surges deeper, he rocks back and the sight is almost too much. “Sorry about this. Won’t take much longer…” He gasps out, arm working at an odd angle and that sounds like an apology and is he _serious?_

The sight alone is making his heart race, his cock pulse angrily against his thigh. He’s acting like this is a chore, like Daryl doesn’t understand this is a damn necessity. That he should be enjoying it. Daryl reaches for the tube on the side of the bed, pours a little on his own hand, warming it as his gathers his courage, his resolve. Blindly, he trails his palm down Paul’s spine, enjoying the resulting shiver. His nerve breaks as he reaches his coccyx, trailing over smooth skin there. 

“Let me. Want to…Have to…” Because it’s not right, watching him get off like that, trying to make it all easy for him. Surely it had to be good for Paul too? And he wanted to try.

The other man’s eyes flash open, almost alarmed. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Want to.” He repeats and Paul gives him a long stare, breathing heavy. “If you want…?” 

Then Paul is leaning down, kissing him so hard he sinks into the pillow. He bites at Paul’s lower lip, enjoys the sensation of a tongue sliding against his before he’s pulling away. “Yeah, I want that.” He answers quietly.

“You do?”

“Uh huh…” Paul’s nodding a little frantically and he can’t simply watch any longer, has to be the one making him feel like that.

But he’s never done it before, much less blindly. He isn’t too proud to ask, not when it comes to keeping Paul safe. “Show me.” He orders, voice low and ragged.

And so Paul’s slick hand finds his, guides him lower between his legs, eyes boring into his. “One finger.” He instructs, and Daryl obliges, just feeling, following Paul’s trail. He clumsily finds his hole, spreading his ass cheeks, presses against the tight muscle just so, too nervous until Paul jerks back into it, moaning. His own finger follows, showing him the way. “Nothing to it,” He gulps and Daryl just has to reach up, licks a trail down his taut neck, tasting him. “Ngh! Follow my lead…”

And so he does, a bizarre dance of sorts. He runs his finger around the outer rim, making Paul groan, whole body tensing in anticipation, wantonly. He takes that as a sign of encouragement before pushing his finger fully inside and the sound Paul makes is filthy. “Like that…” He groans, leaning over Daryl and he wishes he could see, truly because he’s scared of hurting him and he wants that image forever seared into his mind. But soon he’s caught up in Paul’s own rhythm. The way his body rocks back into his hand. The slip and slide of Paul’s finger against his own, encouraging him to mimic the action, in and out, over and over. Paul’s eyes glaze over. He bites his lip and breathes heavily. Paul’s body takes him so beautifully, opening up for him.

“That okay?” Daryl asks, voice deep, almost carnal. He knows when someone is in pain. That’s not the expression Paul’s wearing and it excites him deeply. He pushes in a little more certainly, feeling the tight, smooth heat of him give way, everything slick and right as his finger moves with Paul’s, speeding up, following his lead. Paul’s eyes close and he pants against Daryl’s neck, leaning into him before arching back in one sinuous movement.

“That’s lovely,” Paul sighs encouragingly, rocking back, and Daryl flushes with pleasure. “Just like that.” Daryl pushes in deeper, more certain and Paul’s face is awash with pleasure. It’s so surreal and he suddenly knows he always wants to make Paul feel this good. He has to look after him, wants to keep him safe.

“Ain’t gonna do nothing reckless again are ya?” He blurts out, pushing in just so until Paul is groaning out his answer.

“No…” He shakes his head, eyes slipping shut.

“Mine,” Daryl slurs so quietly and his heart stutters when he sees Paul nod a little.

“Uh huh… Oh _Daryl_.” 

His other hand is braced on the pillow beside Daryl’s head, clenching against the material. Daryl’s free hand grips Paul’s waist, holding him steady, encouraging him. And when Paul slips his finger out, he holds Daryl in place to stop him from following, grinds down against his hand. “Now you.” He orders.

“What?” He says dumbly, pulse racing with sudden nerves.

Paul smiles down at him seductively, something trusting in his open expression. “Just you.”

He swallows hard at that one. “You sure?” 

Paul swoops down to plant another kiss on his lips, smiling as though he thinks Daryl is simply adorable. It’s exasperating and kind of a turn on, leaving him torn between wanting to flip him off, or pin him to the bed and take him hard. 

Then he realises he could, if Paul wanted. The idea makes his head spin.

“You’re not going to hurt me. I can take it.” Paul whispers, words hot and tempting against his lips and he feels a flare of possessiveness at that, knowing he is referring to past experiences. An image that is both incredibly hot and makes him squirm with envy.

Paul looks less smug when he slips another finger in without warning, pushing up just so, exactly as he’d shown him. He tries to create a steady rhythm, fingers sliding in and out, everything slick and right. Paul’s mouth falls open, and he gasps hard. He doesn’t have long to feel smug about that. When Paul bucks forward, he grinds against Daryl’s own cock which has him crying out too. All there is, is the sound of their ragged breathing, the obscene sounds of Daryl’s fingers inside him, and the creak of bed springs. 

Paul moans encouragement and praise that makes him swell with pride as he rocks up against him. “You’re so good. So good Daryl. Just like that, a little harder, now keep pressing _up_.”

And Daryl does, he obeys and when it pulls a ragged moan out of Paul, he swallows up his cries with another kiss before repeating the motion, rubbing over and over again until he’s crying out, shuddering against him.

“That’s enough, I’m ready - Daryl!” He chokes out, almost laughing against his lips and Daryl reluctantly withdraws, circling the sensitive skin around his hole teasingly, feeling just the slightest bit smug. Those deep blue eyes are so close to his and he smirks up at him. “Cocky.” Paul huffs, before wrapping his hand around him, and it’s warm and wet and so heavenly that he wonders how he missed him lubricating his hand like that…

“When did you -” He stammers out, unthinkingly. Because his grip is making his hips leave the mattress, and he’s biting his lip hard, trying to look away from that gorgeous, smug face.

“Ninja moves,” Paul answers solemnly, eyes lighting up and he kisses him hard. And then his hand stops, and he’s shuffling forward, positioning himself, lining up Daryl’s cock and it’s too much, it’s going to be so good… And he’s hanging on to his hips for dear life, trying to think of unsexy thoughts so this will last. The moment hangs in suspension, can this really be happening? And Paul is making it feel so good, so easy.

Then Paul sinks down on to him and all the air leaves his lungs, mind completely blanking. 

He has to close his eyes, screws them up tight.

Paul is so tight, so blissfuly warm and slick around his cock that he has to freeze, to take the time to adjust. Paul seems to know this, waits for him. He gasps, hands braced against his chest, incredible body gripping, still pulling him in. And he keeps sinking, keeps on taking him, impaling himself until Daryl is practically wheezing, eyes rolling back with how divine it feels, heart racing. How will he ever be able to see him again without thinking of this?

Then a hand lies against his cheek, hair tickles his face. “Still with me?” He asks softly, bringing him back.

That’s all it takes. He opens his eyes, nods, clenches at the smooth skin of his hips appreciatively, before slowly, experimentally, bucking shallowly straight up into that warmth, so deep, as deep as he can go. And Paul is crying out, breathing heavy and he’s running on pure instinct. He tries to push up into him again, shallow desperate thrusts, but Paul has all the leverage. Hands braced on his chest, he holds him down as he slowly, torturously slowly, begins to ride him. He lifts himself up, lowers back down and stark pleasure spreads throughout his entire body. He grinds down until Daryl is as deep as can go, angling just so and still _pushing._

“Slow…” Paul gasps out, and he’s so lovely, so damn beautiful Daryl can barely think straight, keeps bucking up desperately whilst Paul tries to develop a smooth rhythm. “Like this.” And Daryl is lost in him. Watching him. The way his hair bounces around his shoulders, the sweat glistening on his chest, his cock rubbing against his stomach, lush and tempting. His mind blanks out as Paul begins to create a steady pace, hips pistoning. Every rise and fall feels like too much. So tight around him, such stark pleasure. He’s moaning, trying to keep the sounds in as he usually would, but can’t, the noises keep escaping. He runs his hands over the curves of Paul’s incredible body, pulls him closer so he can graze his teeth over his neck, attacking it, sucking on his Adam’s apple. He runs his hands down Paul’s sweat-slicked back, and it’s electric and everything to him.

He finds his ass, palming it until his fingers are slipping lower, finding the tight skin where he is stretched around him, tracing it. Paul groans, he spasms, thighs gripping him so tight, body pulling him in until he’s groaning so loud, he’d normally be embarrassed. And he knows he’s not going to last long like this, Paul staring down at him, eyes pulling him in, playing teacher, body slamming down, squeezing and clenching around his cock and it’s almost too much.

But he’s determined. He pushes up into him, becoming more erratic whilst mimicking the angle of his fingers before and Paul is crying out, hair swinging forward. “Daryl!” He clenches around him, slowly, deliberately and it becomes a challenge, to see who can get the other off first. Daryl swears, bites his own lip whilst Paul smirks down at him triumphantly It’s all Daryl can do but drag him down clumsily, so he can kiss him hard, wipe the smirk off his face.

And that’s even better, that’s fucking incredible. He circles his hips, presses up smoothly into Paul at the new angle, feeling every drag, every slide, it has Paul moaning loudly. So he does it again and again, panting, gasping. Still he lacks the right leverage. He encourages Paul to roll over, slipping out for a torturous moment, going on pure instinct, wanting to make him moan again because this position was for him, getting Daryl off, keeping in control. Paul complies in a scrabble of limbs, seemingly eager to have Daryl back inside of him, pulling him close. But now he has Paul on his back and he’s panting, eyes wide and questioning. This is better. He can take control now, really try to make him feel good. He’s angling, lining himself up before pushing back into Paul’s body without warning and Paul is gasping, head slamming back into the pillow. His legs lock around Daryl’s waist and they are pressed so firmly together that Daryl knows this will be his favourite position, so close and intimate. Because they will do this again. They just have to. He digs his hands into the pillow either side of his head, bears down on him.

He pushes into him over and over, in short sharp bursts, angling just right before dragging back out. The noises coming out of both their mouths are feral. Paul’s hands are in his hair, gripping tight until it hurts just the right amount. Paul pulls him down, kisses him hard, more teeth than anything and he can’t hold back. He licks a stripe up the side of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin whilst he bends the other man in half, incredible body so flexible. He presses into him as deep as he can go and there’s this moment of unreality to it, that he’s finally finding this with Paul. Maybe because it is Paul… Everything is heightened and surreal and he’s used to pain but pleasure is something less familiar. Paul’s hands run over the raised skin of his scars and he shivers into his touch.

“This okay?” He manages to stammer out after a particularly loud groan from Paul, just to be sure. The younger man looks up at him as if he’s lost his mind and it’s incredible that he can almost make him laugh whilst they are tangled together like this, looking up at him in such a cranky fashion. 

“Don’t. Fucking. Stop.” He punctuates each word by bucking up, short and sharp and all the air leaves his lungs because it’s building. Something big, and wonderful and it hasn’t been long enough but there’s no way he’s going to be able to hold back… He tries to slow down, presses into Paul in one, long push and it has him almost sighing.

“Oh God, Daryl.”

And so he does it again, slow hard presses that leave his legs shaking, his back aching, sweat rolling down his spine. But he’s getting close to the edge, pleasure a stark razor-wire edge and the can’t think, can only feel, body trembling as Paul keeps pulling him in, tight around his cock, fingers winding in his hair, then down his back, with a hint of nails. The find their way to his ass, press down encouragingly, grinding up into him until he’s crying out too.

“Paul. Can I? Please. Sorry. Have ta.” And the words are one long drawl, barely distinguishable but Paul is nodding eagerly, somehow understanding. He cups his face so they are eye to eye, hips working in torturously slow thrusts to make it last, driving himself insane. His heart flutters and it’s almost too much, this fierce wave of love, the determination to protect this man, their futures fusing together irreversibly. 

“Yeah, yes. Want you to.” Paul eagerly whispers into his ear, running his tongue around the edge of it, nipping at the lobe. And his hands are everywhere, body so tight, hands on his lower back, pushing down hard. He squeezes around him, face alight with pleasure and it’s all he can take. He slams into him, one last time, lets out a loud moan, and comes deep inside of him.

 

________________________________

 

Daryl has just finished.

Paul feels it, every inch of it, impaled on Daryl’s cock as he comes, filling him up. 

He can’t get enough of the feeling. 

He had always hoped this would go well, but this…It went beyond anything he’d allowed himself to imagine during their time apart. Every greedy, dirty thought; every wistful romantic daydream, all of it. Daryl was so instinctive, so beautiful and unselfish it could not have gone better. Now he stares down at Paul with astonished eyes, almost as if he cannot believe it himself. There’s sweat on his chest and his breathing’s erratic. His whole body is flushed and he can’t quite meet Paul’s eyes, choosing to collapse on top of him, to bury his face in his neck instead.

Paul understands immediately. 

“That was…” He hesitates, mind corroding from how hard he still is, forces himself to focus, to lie still and reassure. His voice is breathy, keeps hitching and his hips won’t stay still. Traitors. “They don’t have a word for how good that was.” Daryl huffs against his neck, a sound of disbelief before his hand is sliding down his stomach, reaching between them to wrap around him.

“Shoulda finished first,” He growls out, lifting his head so he can glare at Paul’s cock as though it’s done him a personal injury. He tries not to laugh at the thought, senses that could potentially be disastrous. 

Instead, he threads his fingers through his hair, pulls his face close so he can give him a dirty kiss, one shared by lovers only. “Then finish it.” He gasps out loud.

And so he does.

__

Later, they lie tangled u[, lost in each other.

Paul presses his ear against Daryl’s heart, relishing its steady beat, finally beginning to even out. It took months to get here. There’s no way he’s passing up a chance to snuggle with a shirtless Daryl Dixon (even if sharing that gem earns him a gentle thump to the shoulder). The arm that is hooked over his shoulders is strong and wiry and their legs are tangled together. He’s already wondering when they can do that again.

“Can I smoke?” The low murmur in his ear has him grinning, He’d thought the other man had fallen asleep. It had to be near dawn by now. A new day for the both of them.

He wrinkles his nose at the question. “Not in here please.”

He feels the other man stirring, struggling to sit up. “Then I’ll have ta get dressed…” He drawls.

“Then I heartily object,” Paul practically shouts, appalled at the very notion. He uses the flat of his palms to push him back down. The man puts up a token protest before giving in and flopping back onto the mattress. Paul laughs and as they lie on their sides facing each other he can see other man smirking. “You should quit anyway. Those things’ll be the death of you.”

“I’d be so lucky.” Daryl murmurs darkly. He clears his throat, shadows sculpting the line of his cheekbone. Paul reaches out to trace it with his thumb, pushes a lock of damp hair back while he’s at it, just because he can. “This how it’s gonna be now? You bossing me about, tryna change me?” And his words are jokey, though his expression isn’t, something genuinely curious and a little sad about his question.

“I don’t know how it’s going to be,” He admits softly. They are in the middle of a war. They are both needed and sometimes they won’t be together because they’ll have to put others first. And it isn’t fair, and maybe it isn’t right, and he doesn’t want to let the man out of his sight again. But sometimes wanting something badly enough isn’t a good enough reason to actually get it. 

Perhaps Daryl can read some of this in his expression because he winds his arm around him, pulls him close. And Paul breathes in his scent of sweat and sex and Daryl and just allows himself to feel. To feel safe, and loved and as if things are exactly as they appear. Just a man and his lover, enjoying each other’s company, their bodies, with nothing else between them. 

He realises then just how much he loves him and how dangerous that can be. He feels like he’d be capable doing of pretty much anything for him. He wonders whether Daryl realises that.

He presses against him, hands roving over his back, feeling the map of scars there, each caress an expression of love. He had no idea how bad Daryl’s home life must have been before. When he feels Daryl stiffen against him as he traces a particularly long, raised scar, he kisses his throat, pulls him closer. 

“It’s okay…” He promises. And when Daryl whispers a terse explanation, body tense from the memories, he kisses him long and slow, letting him know that he is loved now, that the scars only bother him in the sense that he ever had to go through it at all, that he loves every part of him. To overcome such horrors and to still be so inherently good and strong…

After, they trade lazy stories. Paul describing his life before the group home. How one time, he’d let his little sister, Madison, give him a makeover complete with pigtails and a full face of makeup, making Daryl chuckle when he admitted how much he liked it with a flutter of his lashes (“That’s somethin’ I’d like to see.” “You should, I was damn pretty.”). Daryl told him of a disastrous camping trip with his brother. Pissing down with rain until they’d turned into swamp monsters, eventually creasing over with laughter because what else could they do? A nightmarish trip turned into an actual decent memory. Then Paul had told him about his dog, a black lab called Alfie. How he’d been his best mate growing up, sleeping on his bed, waiting for him after school, expecting frequent, lengthly belly rubs at all hours. How he’d been a powerful ally, pooping his big sister’s shoe, doing God’s work. Then Daryl had explained the scar on his stomach once Paul’s fingers had gone wandering, how he’d impaled himself with his own arrow, desperately searching for a lost child. And when Paul, strokes his hair, calls him baby in sympathy, he lets him. Allows himself to be cared for.

“Why’d you do it?” Daryl slurs against his neck, both feeling sleepy, the day’s events finally catching up with them.

“Do what?” Paul answers around a yawn, hoping he isn’t going to bring up today’s events. He wants this moment to be about them, just this once, safely cocooned in cotton sheets, sharing body heat.

“Call me that?” Daryl answers almost shyly and Paul smiles, can’t help it. Kisses the top of his head. and Daryl scoffs but doesn’t move.

“That bother you?” He teases into his hair.

The pause that follows is so long, he wonders whether Daryl has actually fallen asleep before he finally answers. “Nah…” He drawls. “S’long as we’re alone.”

Paul chuckles. “That’s right, you have a reputation to uphold.” Daryl's fingers clench against his back in warning and he smiles even more at the tangle of hair burrowing into him. “I call you it because you’re my sweetheart and sometimes I can’t help myself.” He teases before admitting. “And I am bossy, so there’s that too.”

It makes him feel normal. And sometimes he thinks that Daryl needs someone who he can be vulnerable around. He can feel the man’s breath slowing against his neck, muscles relaxing as he begins to fall into a deep sleep.

“An Paul?” He slurs, barely coherent.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ya ever scare me again like that…” And it’s heartbreakingly sincere, only slipping out once he is barely lucid. He thinks he hears him mumble a vague threat about kicking his ass, tacked on to the end for good measure. But it’s hard to take a threat seriously when it’s slurred into your neck, but somehow he’ll keep that in mind. He never wants to upset Daryl like that again if he can help it. Even if it does end in mind-blowing sex.

He feels Daryl lose consciousness before he can form a reply. He’s never had anyone care about him like this before. He’ll make it up to him some more in the morning. And he’ll be there for him if the nightmares come, just as he knows Daryl would do the same for him. They’re a done deal. They are screwed. And tomorrow, he’ll ask Daryl to stay here with him for as long as he can. He knows they can make it work somehow.

There has to be something in this messed up world worth hanging on to. And maybe, just maybe, they have been lucky enough to find it.

In fact, he knows they already have.

**Author's Note:**

>  **This pairing hit me like a Rick Grimes driven police car. Yes, the title is a song by The Kills. It's really good. You should have a listen if you haven't already heard it.**  


End file.
